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Jforeign Classics for (Bnglrslj Scatters 


EDITED BY 


MRS OLIPHANT 


PROSPECTUS. 


rPIIE cordial reception given by the public to the Series 
of “ Ancient Classics for English Readers ” has 
confirmed the intention of the Publishers to carry out a 
kindred Series, which it is believed will not be less 
useful or less welcome, aud in which an attempt will be 
made to introduce the great writers of Europe in a similar 
manner to the many readers who probably have a perfect 
acquaintance with their names, without much knowledge 
of their works, or their place in the literature of the 
modern world. The Classics of Italy, France, Germany, 
and Spain are nearer to us in time, and less separated in 
sentiment, than the still more famous Classics of anti- 
quity ; and if foreign travel is, as everybody allows, a 
great means of enlarging the mind, and dispersing its 
prejudices, an acquaintance with those works in which 
the great nations who are our neighbours have expressed 
their highest life, and by vdiich their manners of thinking 
have been formed, cannot but possess equal advantages. 
A man who would profess to know England without 
knowing something of Shakespeare, Bacon, Milton, and 
the great writers who have followed them, could form but 
an imperfect idea of the national mind and its capabili- 
ties : and so no amount of travel can make us acquainted 


3 


with Italy, while Dante, Tasso, and her great historians 
remain unknown to us; nor can the upheavings of French 
Society and the mental characteristics of the nation he 
comprehended without Voltaire, Molikre, Rousseau, and 
other great names beside. Neither is Germany herself 
without Goethe and Schiller : nor Spain recognisable 
deprived of that noble figure of Cervantes, in whom lives 
the very genius of the nation. This great hand it is our 
design to give such an account of as may bring them 
within the acquaintance of the English reader, whose zeal 
may not carry him the length of the often thankless study 
of translations, and whose readings in a foreign language 
are not easy enough to be pleasant. We are aware that 
there are difficulties in our way in this attempt which did 
not lie in the path of the former Series, since in the 
section of the world for -which we write there are many 
more readers of French and German than of Greek and 
Latin ; but, on the other hand, there is no educated class 
supremely devoted to the study of Continental Classics, 
as is the case in respect to the Ancient ; and even the 
greatest authority in the learned matter of a Greek text 
might be puzzled by Jean Paul Richter, or lose himself 
in the mysteries of Dante’s ‘Paradiso.’ The audience to 
which we aspire is, therefore, at once wider and narrower 
than that to which the great treasures of Hellenic and 
Roman literature are unfamiliar ; and our effort will be 
to present the great Italian, the great Frenchman, the 
famous German, to the reader, so as to make it plain to 
him what and how they wrote, something of how they 
lived, and more or less of their position and influence 
upon the literature of their country. 












^foreign Classics for Cnglisb JUabers 


EDITED BY 

MRS OLIPHANT 


ROUSSEAU 


The Volumes published of this Series contain— 


DANTE, . 
VOLTAIRE, 

^ PASCAL, . 

PETRARCH, 

\) GOETHE, . 
4M0LIERE, . 
MONT^LpNE, 
rabeIlX'is, 

CALDERON, 
SAINT SIMON, 
CERVANTES, 


By the Editor. 

By Major-General Sir E. B. Hamlet, K.C.M.G. 
. . . . By Principal Tulloch. 

. . . . By Henry Reeve, C.B. 

. . . . By A. Hayward, Q.C. 

. By Mrs 0 r.i ph ant and F. Tarver, M.A. 
.. . By Rev. W. Lucas Collins, M.A. 

. . . ■ . . By Walter Besant. 

By E. J. Hasell. 

. . . By Clifton W. Collins, M.A. 

By the Editor. 


CORNEILLE and RACINE, . . By Henry M. Trollope. 
MADAME DE SEVfGNE, . . . By Miss Thackerav. 


LA FONTAINE, and oth 
French Fabulists, 

SCHILLER, 

TASSO, 

s/ROUSSEAU, 


R | By Rev. W. Lucas Collins, M.A. 

. . By James Sime, M.A. 

, . . By E. J. Hasell. 

. By Henry Grey Graham. 


ROUSSEAU. 


BY 

HENRY GREY GRAHAM. 

ii 


PHILADELPHIA 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
1883 . 


PQ 2.043 

.G'G 
copy a* 


« 


486555 

JUL 2 3 1942 


PREFACE 


Materials for a biography of Rousseau are ample 
among the minute, if not always trustworthy, personal 
details in his Confessions, Dialogues, Reveries, and corre- 
spondence, and in information which abounds in the lit- 
erature of the most memoir- writing age of France. It is, 
however, not easy to discover the truth or to get an im- 
partial statement regarding many disputed passages of 
Jean Jacques’ life; for each contemporary writes either as 
an admirer, passionately to defend him, or as if he were a 
personal enemy, bitterly to attack him. He has quoted 
with approval a wise saying of Montesquieu, when the 
baron had a quarrel — “ Listen neither to P&re Tourne- 
mine nor to me when we speak of each other, for we 
are no longer friends.” If this advice, however, were 
to be followed in the case of the author of ‘ Emile,’ it 
would be impossible to learn very much about him, 
seeing that he quarrelled with almost every one who 
knew him best, and regarded as foes those who have 
told us most about him, and those about whom he 
has himself spoken most freely. I have not thought 
it necessary to burden the pages with references to 
every source from which facts have been gained ; but 


VI 


PKEFACE. 


no student of Rousseau’s writings can omit to own 
specially his obligations to the studies of St Marc 
Girardin, and the masterly work of Mu Morley. Some 
recent publications have thrown further light on the 
life of Rousseau, and of these I have made use. A 
brochure , edited by Professor E. Ritter (‘ La Famille 
de Jean Jacques: Documents inedits.’ Geneva, 1878), 
supplies several details of family history, and corrects 
several errors in the earliest part of the ‘Confessions,’ 
which was written from memory not unaided by imagina- 
tion. M. Albert Jansen’s recent tractate (‘ J. J. Rousseau: 
Recherches Biographiques et Litteraires.’ Berlin, 1882), 
traces with admirable care the history of the origin and 
composition of the ‘ Confessions,’ which, having arisen 
out of sketches for his autobiography which Rousseau 
began at Motiers in 1763, under the title of Mon Por- 
trait, were not finished till 1770. When David Hume 
and Jean Jacques had their deadly quarrel, the historian 
deposited the various letters connected with it in the 
Royal Society of Edinburgh (after they were declined 
by the British Museum), fearing lest Rousseau in his 
forthcoming Memoirs would accuse him of garbling 
them, or would himself give a false version of the 
dispute. Although J. Hill Burton has published most 
of the letters connected with Rousseau, there are still 
some gleanings to be got ; and I thank the Council 
of the Royal Society of Edinburgh for their kindness 
and courtesy in allowing me to examine the Hume 
Papers, so full of interest and literary importance. I 
only regret that the limited space at my disposal has 
forced me to make so limited a use of those valuable 
manuscripts. 


CONTENTS, 


CHAP. 


PAGE 


I. EARLY LIFE AND ADVENTURES, . 

II. IN PARIS, ...... 

III. LITERARY SUCCESS, . 

IV. DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY, 

V. THE HERMITAGE, . 

VI. MONTMORENCY, . 

VII. THE ‘ NEW IIELOISE,’ OR ‘ JULIE,’ 

VIII. ‘the social contract; or, PRINCIPLES 

OF PUBLIC RIGHTS,’ . 

IX. ‘EMILE, OR EDUCATION/ . 


X. 

CONFESSION OF 

THE 

SAVOYARD 

VICAR 


(‘ EMILE ’), . 

• 

• • 

• • 

XI. 

PERSECUTION, . 

• 

• • 

• • 

XII. 

IN ENGLAND, . 

• 

• • 

• • 

XIII. 

LAST YEARS, . 

• 

• • 

• • 


1 

33 

44 

66 vx 

78 

91 

104 

124 

150 

177 

190 

203 

213 













EOUSSEAU, 


CHAPTER I. 

EARLY LIFE AND ADVENTURES. 

About 1550 there settled in Geneva, Didier Rousseau, 
who had been a bookseller in Paris, hut who was obliged 
to leave his country owing to his Protestant views. In 
1555 he was enrolled as a citizen of the town, and 
three generations of his descendants pass by, occupy- 
ing the rank of tradesmen. Although not known to 
the world, they seem, however, not to have been quite 
unknown to the society of that little city of 20,000 
people, with its keen Puritan - eyes and its inquisitorial 
officials of the Consistory. Under date October 1699 1 
there may still be read the judgment of the council 
against Isaac Rousseau (father of Jean Jacques) and 
Dthers for assault on some English officers as they passed 
along the street one night “ without candles ” — the 
prisoners to be severely censured, made to ask pardon, 

1 La Famille de Jean Jacques : Documents ir.^dits, 1878. 

F.C. XVII. A 


o 


ROUSSEAU. 


and Rousseau (then nineteen years old) sentenced to 
pay twenty-five florins. A few years further on, and 
the curious, on turning now to the registry of the Con- 
sistory under August 1702, may find that daughters of 
Sieur David Rousseau (the grandfather of Jean Jacques) 
have been cited because of complaints that they have 
been seen playing cards on the Sunday evening near the 
door of their house ; and then it is afterwards recorded 
that one daughter came forward and stated that they were 
not playing with cards, but only guessing fortunes, upon 
which she is ordered to appear before the pastor and 
elder of the district. Such are the meagre details that 
eager investigators have discovered of the family of the 
great writer of the eighteenth century. 

On June 28, 1712, Jean Jacques Rousseau was born 
in Geneva. His father Isaac, of whose youth we have 
found one characteristic detail, was a watchmaker, and 
was also for some time a dancing-master. Soon after 
Jean Jacques’ birth he lost his mother, Susanne, who 
was niece of Samuel Bernard, a Genevese minister. “ I 
was born weak and sickly,” he says ; “ I cost my mother 
her life, and my birth was the first of my misfortunes/ 
An aunt nursed and tended the child with a care and 
tenderness which he never forgot ; and neighbours and 
relations dealt kindly with the motherless lad. Often 
he sat beside his aunt watching her as she knitted, 
listening to her as she sang the simple songs that de- 
lighted him : and long years after, when he was an 
old sad man, lie remembered lovingly and vividly the 
good woman — her little ways, the manner of her dress, 
the fashion of her hair, with the two black locks on her 
forehead ; and as the old songs came to memory, the 


ISAAC ROUSSEAU. 


3 


tears filled his eyes, while he tried with feeble broken 
voice to sing them over again. His father was his 
chief companion — a frivolous, impulsive man, with an 
excitable disposition, a selfish nature, and a senti- 
mental heart. His son, however, thought him pos- 
sessed of every virtue, regarded him as “the best of 
fathers,” and revered alike his principles, which were 
certainly very admirable, and his practice of them, which 
was singularly deficient. He seems to have neglected 
his elder son, who, after learning the trade of watch- 
making with his father, disappeared after a scamp- 
ish youth, and never was seen again. He never 
troubled himself to train his younger son, soon left him 
entirely to his relations, and finally to look after him- 
self, keeping for his own use the money which Jean 
Jacques inherited from his mother. He taught his child, 
however, to read, and some romances belonging to his 
wife were the books they studied together. When supper 
was over they would sit together reading aloud by turns 
far into the night. Sometimes in their excitement the 
day had dawned, and the birds had begun to sing, be- 
fore they were recalled to the world ; and as they heard 
the twitter of the swallows, the father would say, “ Let 
us be off to bed ; why, I am more a child than yourself.” 
In this close companionship during pensive moods, his 
father would often plaintively say, “ Jean Jacques, let 
us talk of your mother;” and his son would answer, 
“ Yes, father, but then we shall cry.” His father, who 
J enjoyed being inconsolable, thereupon always wept. 
While the already too impulsiveand imaginative nature of 
Jean Jacques was in this way being dangerously fostered, 
— as he says, “ feeling everything and knowing nothing,” 


4 


ROUSSEAU. 


— the stock of romances was at last finished ; and when 
winter came, a collection of hooks, which had belonged 
to his granduncle Bernard, was ransacked. There were 
Bossuet’s ‘ Discourse on Universal History,’ Fontenelle’s 
‘ Dialogues of the Dead,’ Ovid’s 1 Metamorphoses,’ Le 
Sueur’s 1 History of the Church and Empire,’ and above 
all, Plutarch’s ‘Lives,’ which he continued to love when an 
old man. These books this boy of seven years old read 
aloud during the day, while his father was busy with 
his watches ; and soon the feats of Brutus, Scaevola, 
Agesilaus, and Juba, with the conversation of his father, 
full of patriotic sentiment, fired his heart, and produced, 
he says, “ that republican spirit and love of liberty which 
made him impatient of restraint or servitude ” all his life 
after. As he read his eyes would glisten at the heroic 
deeds ; and he tells how “one day, as I related at table 
the adventure of Scaevola, they were startled to see me 
advance and hold my hand over the chafing-dish to rep- 
resent the action.” 

These pleasant days came to an abrupt conclusion. 
One day, in 1722, his father quarrelled with an officer 
in Geneva, and, according to Jean Jacques, he fled 
rather than compromise his honour and his sense of 
justice, because, contrary to the law, he was going to be 
put into the prison alone during the trial, instead of his 
accuser being put there also, as the law required. This 
is the filial view of the case, which, however, is hardly 
borne out by evidence, 1 which shows that he had assaulted 
this gentleman with his sword, and two days afterwards 
unheroically fled from the town to escape the conse- 
quences. For a month his return was awaited, and then 
1 La Famille de Jean Jacques, p. 25. 


SCHOOL DAYS. 


5 


te Isaac Rousseau, fils, mciUre de danse,” was sentenced in 
his absence to ask pardon on his knees from God, from 
the Seignory, and from the said M. Gautier, for assault 
(exces) committed by him, and to three months’ im- 
prisonment, with fifty crowns’ fine, and expenses. Isaac, 
however, never returned, but established himself at Nyon, 
where, three years afterwards, he married again and spent 
the rest of his life. 

On the flight of his father, Jean Jacques was taken 
under the charge of his uncle Bernard, an engineer, who 
soon sent him and his own son to M. Lainbercier, a 
minister, at Bossey, a village in the neighbourhood, 
where he learned Latin, and “ that poor rubbish which 
accompanies it under the name of education.” For two 
years he remained there ; and during that time one or 
two incidents occurred which, slight as they seem, he 
believed to have influenced his whole character. One 
day he was accused unjustly of breaking the teeth of a 
comb, and notwithstanding all his protestations he was 
treated as guilty. Such a trouble most boys would feel 
deeply at the time, and forget soon after in the crowd of 
little cares and pleasures that occupy their minds. Not so, 
however, with Jean Jacques; and when he wrote nearly 
fifty years afterwards the story of his life, the injury, 
the shame, the sense of humiliation and injustice, re- 
mained as intense as on the day the charge was made ; 
— as keen as on the night when the two cousins in their 
little bed embraced each other convulsively, and to re- 
lieve their passion sat up in the darkness and cried 
time after time as loud as they could, “ Carnifex ! 
carnifex / carnifex / ” Speaking of the incident, he 
says 


6 


ROUSSEAU. 


“ I feel, in writing this, my pulse rise still : these moments 
will he always with me, although I were to live a hundred 
thousand years. This first experience of violence and in- 
justice has remained so deeply graven on my mind, that 
every idea connected with it brings back my first emotion ; 
and this feeling has taken such a hold upon me, that my 
heart fires at the sight or recital of any unjust act, whatever 
may be its object, and wheresoever it may be committed, as if 
I myself were the victim. When I read the cruelties of some 
ferocious tyrant or the cunning atrocities of some rogue of 
a priest, 1 could start off to stab the wretches, although I 
were to die a hundred deaths.” 

From that day he felt that the delightfulness of child- 
hood had gone, and all its simple innocence was over. 
It seems absurd to attribute so great an effect to so 
slight a cause ; but probably in such an excitable and 
morbidly acute nature as his, so quick to feel, so slow to 
forget, there is no great exaggeration in his words. 

Six months after, in 1724, Jean Jacques was back in 
his uncle’s house ; and he fell under the immediate 
charge of Madame Bernard, an austere pietist, who 
made religion a business for herself, and certainly no 
unmitigated pleasure to others. He was treated kindly, 
however, and only a few months 1 passed by before 
his future profession was decided ; and when he was 
thirteen years old, he was apprenticed to a notary, 
much against his will. He entered on his work with 
distaste, and he pursued it with increasing hatred, while 
his master’s contempt for his apprentice increased in 
the same proportion. He called the boy stupid, 
taunted him that while his uncle had promised him 

1 Not “two or three years,” as the Confessions say. — La Fa- 
mille de Jean Jacques, p. 29. 


engraver’s apprentice. 


7 


a smart lad, lie had only sent him an ass, and then 
Jean Jacques was sent ignominiously hack as utterly in- 
capable, — an opinion in which his fellow-clerks thoroughly 
acquiesced. Much humbled, he was content to become 
apprentice (April 26, 1725) to an engraver, — a coarse, 
violent man, who ill-treated the hoy, and by his blows and 
his tyranny thoroughly stupefied and demoralised him. 
He pilfered, told lies, became cowardly and cunning, for 
terror of his employer had made him so. He liked the 
engraver’s delicate art, but his life was miserable in a ser- 
vice he loathed under a master he hated. When he was 
sixteen years old (1728), one Sunday he was outside the 
city walls on a ramble with some companions. Twice 
before, on similar occasion he had gone so far and 
stayed so long that the gates were shut upon him, and 
when he returned next day his master’s reception seemed 
too cruel to bear repetition. This night the gates were 
shut earlier than usual, and as the lads were returning 
they heard the retreat sounded. With all his strength 
poor Jean Jacques ran as the drum beat, terror giving 
swiftness to his steps. In vain he cried with choking 
voice to the soldiers : when he was twenty paces from 
the gate the fatal drawbridge was raised. Years after 
he shuddered to think of his position, for he was in 
abject terror at the idea of facing his brutal master the 
next day. However, he made his determination never 
to return, and he bade farewell to his companions. 

The horror of the evening gave way to delight in the 
morning, as Jean Jacques found himself free, with the 
world ready to open for him, and as he thought of a 
brilliant life before him with all the bright audacity of 
youth. For some d&ys he wandered near the town, 


8 


ROUSSEAU. 


lodging with peasants whom he knew, and one day he 
went to Confignon in Savoy. The priests of Savoy, in their 
intense Catholic fervour, were always in religious com- 
petition with ministers of Geneva, each party trying to save 
heretics from perdition, and to make proselytes to what 
each reckoned the only saving faith. Of these zealous 
priests none were more zealous than M. Pontverre, the 
Cure of Confignon. He received Jean Jacques warmly, 
gave him food to eat and orthodox arguments to digest, 
— for he saw in this Protestant lad excellent spoil 
from the enemy. “ I was certainly more learned than 
M. Pontverre,” says Rousseau, “hut I was too good a 
guest to he a good theologian; and his Frangi wine, 
which seemed excellent, argued so triumphantly for 
him, that I should have blushed to shut the mouth of 
so good a host.” Jean Jacques, therefore, listened with 
obsequious attention to the worthy father’s exposition, 
professed himself deeply impressed by all that he said, 
and pretended to be exceedingly desirous to learn more 
about the Catholic faith. The result of the interview 
was that, with the priest’s parting words — “God calls 
you” — ringing in his ears, Jean Jacques was sent to 
Annecy, to be placed under the orthodox care of Madame 
de Warens, who should help him to enter the true Church. 
He walked away with a sinking heart, expecting to be 
relegated to the instruction of some old pietist, who, 
having so great a reputation for good works, could have 
none whatever for good looks. To his surprise he found 
that Madame de Warens was a lovely young lady, who, 
with a charming smile, took the letter of introduction 
from his trembling hand. “ Child,” said she, in a voice 
that made every nerve thrill, “ you are very young to be 


GOES TO TURIN. 


9 


thus wandering about. Go indoors, bid them give you 
breakfast, and I’ll speak with you after Mass.” Now 
he felt certain that a “religion preached by such mis- 
sionaries could not fail to lead to paradise.” 

What was he now to do 1 He did not know his own 
trade, and even if he did, there was no scope to exercise it. 
At dinner some one gave advice, which he pronounced 
as “ coining direct from heaven,” but Avhich Jean Jacques 
afterwards thought, to judge from the results, came from 
the opposite quarter. This advice was, that the lad 
should go to Turin and enter *a hospice for catechumens, 
where he would be sustained temporally and spiritually till 
he entered the fold of the Church. This suggestion was 
adopted, much to Rousseau’s disgust at lirst, and in a 
few days he started off. Jean Jacques’ imaginative 
heart was soon elated at the prospect of seeing the 
world. “ I walked with light steps,” lie says ; “ young 
desires, enchanting hope, brilliant projects, filled my 
soul. Every object seemed to insure some approaching 
happiness. I fancied in the houses rustic festivals ; in 
the meadows madcap sports; upon the trees delicious 
fruits; under the shades voluptuous interviews; on 
the mountains pails of milk and cream; a charming 
idleness, peace, simplicity, the pleasure of going with- 
out knowing where.” After some days’ travelling on 
foot he reached Turin, and was received into the hospice. 
The huge gate with iron bars clanged behind him, and 
he discovered himself amongst companions certainly not 
congenial to a soul so fresh as his. He found, in fact, 
four or five scoundrels as his fellow-catechumens. These 
swarthy blackguards went from monastery to monastery 
in Spain and Italy, calling themselves Jews or Moors, 


10 


EOUSSEAU. 


and pretending at each place to be new zealous converts, 
in order to get food and lodging; and in the hospice they 
alternated the holy instructions from the priests with 
foul vice and vile talk amongst themselves in their 
rooms. Jean Jacques was put through a course of 
tuition; and, taking advantage of his previous know- 
ledge and reading, especially of Le Sueur’s * History,’ he 
gravely quoted the Fathers, and argued each point with 
his instructor in mock solemnity and fervour, but judi- 
ciously always allowed himself to be convinced at the 
proper time. At the end of nine days — though he says 
it was a month — he was ready to profess his conversion, 
and was led in procession to the church of St John to 
make solemn abjuration of his heresy. Dressed in a 
grey robe, he walked with one man before and another 
behind him, each bearing a brass basin on which he 
clinked with a key, to call charitable spectators to put 
in alms for the glory of God and the help of the poor 
convert. Having been baptised, and admitted into the 
bosom of the Church, he was sent to the hospital gate, 
presented with about twenty francs, which the collection 
produced, and recommended to be a good Christian ; 
after which he was wished good speed, the door was 
closed, and he was left alone on the streets of Turin. It 
is impossible to pity the lad who was thus cast adrift 
after a course of hypocrisy, and who, instead of an easy 
future won by the good favour of priests, found himself 
reduced to sleep on the pavement. 

However, he professes not to have felt crushed, but 
to have been filled with delight at his regained freedom, 
— with a great city to see, with hosts of people who would 
soon recognise his talent, and with an inexhaustible 


BECOMES A FOOTMAN. 


11 


treasure of twenty francs in his pocket. He found a 
lodging in the house of a woman who gave accommoda- 
tion to servants out of place at a sou a night. She, her 
family of six children, and the lodgers, slept in the same 
room ; she was dirty, rough, swore like a carter, hut she 
was kind-hearted and honest. Having nothing to do, Bous- 
seau wandered about the streets visiting the sights, and 
every morning listening to the music in the royal chapel; 
but he found that although his money went, his appetite 
remained. In vain he went from shop to shop, offering 
to engrave ciphers and arms on plate. But one day he 
saw through a window a pretty young woman in a shop, 
and he went in to offer his work. Madame Basile took 
pity on him, and gave him employment, for which he 
was paid in food and clothing ; while Bousseau on his 
side did his best to make himself agreeable to her. This 
went on till the husband, who had been from home, re 
turned, and finding this foreign lad about the place, 
very properly turned him out of doors with scanty cere- 
mony. The worthy lodging-keeper, however, found for 
Bousseau the situation of lackey to Madame de Vercellis, 
a lady of position, but three months afterwards his mis- 
tress died, and he was dismissed with thirty livres in his 
pocket and his livery on his back. An incident occurred 
before he left, which he relates in his ‘ Confessions ’ with 
sincere shame. He stole a ribbon, and it having been 
found upon him, he accused a fellow-servant, a simple, 
modest girl, of having given it to him. Marion was 
brought before the household and confronted with her 
accuser, who boldly maintained his story. She remained 
at first speechless, casting a sad look on him, while he 
with effrontery repeated the false charge which she had 


12 


ROUSSEAU. 


denied. “Ah, Rousseau, I believed you were good- 
hearted • you have made me very unhappy, hut I would 
not he in your place,” she cried, bursting into tears. 
Writing forty years after, he owns — 

“ This cruel recollection troubles me at times, and over- 
whelms me so that, in my sleepless nights I see this poor girl 
come to reproach me with my crime as if it were yesterday. 
... At the sight of Marion my heart was torn, but the pres- 
ence of so many persons was stronger than the compunction. 
I feared the punishment little, I feared only the shame, — I 
feared it more than death, more than crime, more than any- 
thing. I saw only the horror of being detected, and declared 
publicly, in my own presence, thief, liar, calumniator.” 

Bitter as his remorse was, however, he tells, with the 
marvellous frankness of a man possessed of remarkable 
self-unrighteousness, how he has since consoled himself 
with the selfish reflection that the agony of this sin pre- 
served him through life from any criminal act, and that 
his aversion to lying proceeded from his having been 
guilty of so black and dastardly a falsehood. Whether 
his consequent aversion to falsehoods kept him from 
uttering them, the reader will soon be able to judge. 

Rousseau was now without a situation, and he went 
back to his dirty lodgings with the old landlady, where 
he remained for six weeks, spending the tedious days in 
prowling about the streets. At length another place 
was found for him, and he entered the service of the 
Comte de Gouvon as footman, although this time he 
was spared the indignity of a livery. He had, however, 
to wait at table, and do the customary menial work. 
With his chronic infatuation, he fell in love with his 
masters daughter, and showed his dumb adoration by 


LEAVES TURIN. 


13 


waiting upon her with assiduous attention. If her 
servant quitted her chair for an instant, Jean Jacques at 
once darted into his place : lie would post himself oppo- 
site to her to observe everything she did and needed, and 
to spy the moments to change her plate. He believed 
he had made a deep impression on her heart, although 
not a look or word did she vouchsafe the amorous 
lackey ; and as he hovered about her room one day, she 
dismissed him sharply' from the chamber. His talents 
and education could not, however, be overlooked by 
the household, and the Abbe de Gouvon, his master’s 
son, who was a man of letters, taught him some 
Latin, used him as a secretary, and made him a fair 
Italian scholar. His attention, while it served to im- 
prove Jean Jacques as a scholar, spoiled him as a foot- 
man ; and while he was made a favourite of the family, 
he became an object of dislike and jealousy to his fellow- 
servants. He became careless, he neglected his work, 
and being in vain reprimanded time after time, he was 
at last one day taken by the shoulders, ignominiously 
shoved out of his master’s house, and the door was shut 
upon him. 

This new freedom, instead of filling Rousseau with 
dismay, filled him with delight, for he had formed the 
desire of travelling with a Genevese lad in Turin back to 
Switzerland. He and his friend Bade had conceived 
a brilliant plan for paying their way. The Abbe de 
Gouvon had given him a pretty toy fountain, and the 
lads imagined that by making a show of it at work to 
the peasants, they would get good cheer and shelter at the 
villages. They set out with gay spirits and magnificent 
expectations, but they soon found their fountain was not 


14 


ROUSSEAU. 


a pecuniary success and it began to bore them; so when 
one fine day it broke, they marched on merrily with 
hands as light as their hearts. At length they reached 
Annecy, and with beating heart and trembling limbs 
Eousseau knocked at Madame de Warens’s door. He 
was kindly received by the hospitable widow as he 
kneeled at her feet and kissed her hand rapturously, and 
soon settled in this house as his home. 

Madame de Warens was a widow of about twenty-eight. 
She was rather short and stout, but with a well-made 
figure, features more beautiful in expression than in form, 
with soft blue eyes, a dazzling complexion, exquisite ash- 
coloured hair arranged with piquant carelessness, a win- 
ning smile, and a bust, hands, and arms, which seemed to 
Eousseau matchless for beauty. The Laron de Warens 
had been much older than herself, but she did not live 
with him, and had taken up her residence at Evian, 
on Lake Leman. On one occasion, when the King of 
Sardinia was there, she allowed herself to be converted 
to Catholicism; and pleased at this conversion, and pro- 
bably also personally pleased with so amiable a convert, 
the king settled on her a pension of 2000 francs. 
Although Madame de Warens had changed her religion, 
in reality she had very little religion to change ; and 
although Eousseau calls her a true Catholic, she was 
much such a Catholic as his Savoyard vicar, who held 
a sentimental deism and solemnly conformed to Eomish 
worship. While she was still under her husband’s roof 
a tutor had basely undermined her principles, and used 
only too successful sophistry to prove that morality was 
a mere form, and that womanly virtue need only be 
kept in appearance. Her volatile mind and passionless 


MADAME DE WAKENS. 


15 


heart adopted these notions to her cost Yet although 
without any principle, she was full of good impulses ; 
she was kindly, good-tempered, and charitable. She 
was a clever woman, with philosophical views of the 
broadest type, which she had abundant talent to under- 
stand and to support ; hut all her ability did not prevent 
her trustful nature from being the dupe of knaves, who 
took advantage of her crotchets to further their own ends. 
Having inherited from her father a fancy for alchemy, 
she spent much of her time, and still more of her money, 
on drugs, furnaces, chemicals, and on charlatans who, 
/ without a crown in their own pockets, professed their 


power of making boundless fortunes for other people. 

In the old house at Annecy, where Jean Jacques in 
1731 was installed, he was supremely happy in his non- 
descript position of pupil, servant, and lover. His work 
consisted in transcribing receipts, sorting herbs which 
Claude Anet the steward had collected, and in pounding 
drugs. Numbers of people came to the house — beggars 
and visitors — and all were treated with hospitality, to 
Rousseau’s intense disgust ; for he wished to monopolise 
the whole of his mistress’s attention, and he would mur- 
mur petulantly when they came, and curse them after they 
went, till the tears of laughter rolled down Madame de 
Warens’s cheeks. Jean Jacques was only at rest when 
she was near; and though he was silent and slow in 
society, with her he never wearied, never ceased talking. 
To read with her the ‘Spectator’ or Voltaire’s ‘Hen- 
riade,’ to listen while she sang or played upon the harp- 
sichord in the evenings, to walk among the woods or 
sit in the arbour, — she calling him “ child,” he calling 
her “ mamma,” — was perfect happiness. 


16 


ROUSSEAU. 


This enchanting life could not last for ever. Rousseau 
was eighteen, and must earn his living. M. d’Aubonne, 
a relation of Madame de Warens, coming to see her one 
day, was asked to give his opinion upon Rousseau ; and 
he came to the unflattering conclusion that the lad was 
of limited intelligence and very ignorant, and that he 
was only fit to become a village priest. Yet even that 
humble post required more Latin than he possessed, and 
in consequence he was sent to the Seminary of St 
Lazare, feeling as if driven from paradise. His pro- 
gress here was exceedingly slow. His talents made a 
very poor impression upon his teachers, and after they 
had used every effort, he was with languid praise pro- 
nounced a good enough lad, but not even fit to become 
a priest. 

After he returned home again, Jean Jacques proved 
far more proficient at his flute than at his classics, and 
passed most of the winter with M. le Maitre, choir- 
master of the cathedral, who lived close by. This man 
was a good musician and boon companion, who was 
constantly drinking over his work in his room, and 
constantly quarrelling when he left it. Having taken 
offence at some slight from the precentor of the 
cathedral, he resolved to depart secretly; and it was 
arranged that Jean Jacques should accompany him to 
Lyons. After a vagabond journey, during which the 
travellers got hospitality chiefly by their false represen- 
tations, they arrived at Lyons. As they passed along 
a street Le Maitre fell down in an epileptic fit. Rous- 
seau called for help, gave the name of their inn, and 
while the crowd was busy assisting the poor man, and 
no one was looking, he ran off, leaving his friend 


VAGRANT ADVENTURES. 


17 


to liis fate. At the time he felt no compunction : 
he persuaded himself he could have done no more for 
him ; hut long years after he remembered with remorse 
his baseness. “It is not,” he says, “ when a base act is 
just done that it torments us, — it is when long after 
it is recalled ; for the memory of it cannot he extin- 
guished.” And when he finishes the wretched story in 
his ‘ Confessions,’ where he does public penance for his 
sins in after -years, he writes with a sigh of relief — 
“ Thank heaven, I have ended the painful avowal. If 
there remained any more such to make, I would abandon 
the work I have begun.” 

At the tune his only feeling was that of eagerness to 
get back to Annecy; but when he did so, he found 
to his dismay that Madame de Warens had left home, 
and no one knew where she was or when she would 
return. In his necessity he shared a lodging with one 
Venture, a Frenchman, who in the previous year had 
come to Annecy in poverty, and having captivated the 
people with his music, his manners, his conversation, 
now lived on their hospitality. After some time, a 
housemaid of Madame de Warens, having heard nothing 
of her vagrant mistress, proposed to Eousseau to accom- 
pany her to her fathers house at Friburg, whither the 
two trudged on foot. As they passed through Fyon, 
J ean Jacques visited his father. They embraced warmly, 
they wept profusely together, and then they parted, after 
scanty pressing to stay from his stepmother, who was 
naturally suspicious of his equivocal companionship. On 
reaching Friburg, and getting a still colder reception from 
the girl’s father, he went on his vague way without a 
sou to pay food or lodging. When he came to Lausanne 
F.C. XVII. B 


18 


KOUSSEA.U. 


he thought he would imitate the clever knavish Venture 
— pretending to he able to teach music, which he was 
quite incapable of doing, and to have come from Paris, 
where he had never been. Boldly he entered an inn, 
was received without suspicion ; and telling his plausible 
tale, the good-natured landlord allowed him to stay, and 
advised him to live on one meal a-day, and pay for it 
when he got pupils. “ Why is it that, having found so 
many good people in my youth, I find so few in my 
old age 1 ” asks Rousseau, in his ‘ Confessions.’ “ Is the 
race exhausted ? No ; but the class in which I need to 
seek them to-day is no longer the same as that in which I 
found them then. Amongst the people, where great pas- 
sions speak only at intervals, the feelings of nature make 
themselves more often heard. In the higher ranks they 
are absolutely stifled, and under the mask of feeling it 
is only interest or vanity that speaks.” In this way he 
scorns the insensibility of the rich, who, at the time at 
which he writes, were full of kindness to him, and who 
would have loaded him with favours, which he rudely 
rejected ; and while he praises the simple kindness of 
the poor, he forgets that at the very time of which he 
speaks he was imposing upon their goodness with his 
lies. 

When Jean Jacques thus started in life as a teacher 
of music, he was almost entirely ignorant of the art, and 
announced himself as a composer while scarcely capable 
of writing down an air. Infatuated by the example 
of his French friend, who called himself Venture de 
Villen euve, Rousseau made an anagram of his name, 
and called himself Vaussore de Villeneuve. Being 
presented to M. de Treytorens, who gave concerts, he 


MUSIC-TEACHER AND COMPOSER. 


19 


offered to compose a piece for one of liis entertainments. 
For sixteen days the soi-disant Vaussore de Villeneuve 
worked audaciously — drawing out the parts and arrang- 
ing them with as much assurance as if this was to be 
a masterpiece of harmony; and, to crown the whole, 
put at the end of it a pretty popular air as his own 
composition, “ as boldly as if he had been speaking 
to the inhabitants of the moon.” Rousseau with 
humorous candour describes the rehearsal, — how, after 
heating gravely with his roll of paper, the music began 
— a discordant mass of sound : — 

“ The musicians choked with laughter ; the audience opened 
wide their eyes, and wished they could have shut their ears. 
I had the pertinacity to go on perspiring, it is true, great 
drops, but retained by shame, planted there and not daring 
to fly. For my consolation I heard round me the assistants 
saying in each other’s ears, or rather in mine, ‘ It is intoler- 
able ! ’ another, ‘ What outrageous music ! ’ another, 1 What 
a devil of a row ! ’ . . . But what put everybody in good hu- 
mour was the minuet. Hardly had they begun to play before 
I heard from all parts bursts of laughter. Every one con- 
gratulated me on my pretty taste in song, — assured me that 
this minuet would make me everywhere spoken of, and that 
I should be universally famous. I need not paint my an- 
guish, nor need I own that I richly deserved it.” 

To one of the players who came to see him next day 
he opened his burdened heart, and told his story in the 
strictest confidence— the result being, of course, that 
before the evening everybody in Lausanne knew who 
and what he was. It is not wonderful that he only 
got one or two pupils, and that th§y knew far more 
than himself ; for he could not read an air at sight, 
or follow the execution, to see if it was rightly played, 


20 


ROUSSEAU. 


of the very piece he had himself composed. By dint 
of teaching, however, he made a little advance in the 
knowledge of music ; and going to Heuchatel soon after, 
he got a few pupils, and so managed to live. 

It was in the spring of 1731 1 that one day he entered 
an inn at Boudry, and there saw a man with a great beard, 
a violet Greek dress, a fur cap, with a dignified air; 
who made himself barely intelligible to the landlord by 
signs ; and who spoke in a broken language, which no one 
but Jean Jacques understood. He was an archimandrite 
of Jerusalem, getting subscriptions for the restoration of 
the Holy Sepulchre — a project which had been advocated 
and collected for at various times in Switzerland before, 
but for which he was not very well equipped, seeing 
that he knew hardly any tongue except Greek and 
Italian. B,ousseau was so needy that he readily accepted 
the proposal to become this man’s secretary and inter- 
preter. He and Father Athanasius Paulus went from 
town to town for some weeks, until he came to Soleure, 
where another change took place in his fortunes. He 
accompanied the priest to the house of the French 
ambassador, who conceived an immediate interest in 
him, questioned him, learned all his story, and took 
him under his care. A" short time afterwards Rousseau 
was sent off to Paris in attendance upon a young officer. 
He left the fresh, sweet country, with its woods, its 
streams, and the songs of birds, which were life to his 
heart, with regret, and entered Paris with disgust and 
bitter disappointment at its filthy, narrow streets, its 
dirty houses, its poverty, its rough carters, its screeching 

i Rousseau places this incident in 1732, hut see La Famille de 
Jean Jacques, p. 29. 


FIRST VISIT TO PAKIS. 


21 


street cries. Was this the famed Paris of whose glories 
his boyish thoughts were full! of whose streets of 
marble palaces he had often dreamt ! JSTo doubt, the 
reception Rousseau got from those to whom he was re- 
commended compensated him to some degree ; and the 
exquisite manners, the delicate compliments, the agree- 
able courtesies of society, so different from the rough 
honesty of rural ways, deluded this vagabond Swiss into 
the notion that he had made a deep impression on the 
heart of every lady he met, and that his fortune was 
almost secured. Quickly, however, he discovered that, 
though the French mean well, they do not mean much, 
and that though “while speaking to you they are full 
of you, they forget your existence the moment you 
are out of sight.” 

Rousseau soon tired of Paris, and still sooner of his 
master, and hearing that Madame de Warens had gone 
home, he left Paris to return to his beloved Annecy. 
With that buoyancy of spirits which always filled him, 
even when an old embittered man, whenever he breathed 
the country air, and enjoyed the country freedom in 
charming vagabondage, Jean Jacques rambled along, 
singing as he went, from village to village, from prov- 
ince to province, at his own glad will, full of day-dreams, 
drinking in pleasure from greenwood and meadow ; 
watching the rustic sports, and listening to the birds 
upon the hedgerows with unwearying delight. He re- 
lates an incident which occurred in the course of his 
journey which vividly illustrates the state of the poor 
of France in the last century, and explains the fierce 
spirit which animated all his writings in their sup- 
port. One day he lost his way, and, hungry and 


22 


ROUSSEAU. 


tired, he entered a peasant’s hut, where he ashed for 
food. 

“ He offered me skimmed milk and coarse barley-bread, 
saying that it was all that he had. I drank the milk with 
delight, and ate the bread, straw and all ; but that was not 
very restoring to a man exhausted with fatigue. This peas- 
ant, who examined me narrowly, judged of the truth of my 
story by my appetite. All at once, after having said that he 
saw I was a good honest young man, who had no intention 
of betraying him, he opened a little trap, descended, and 
returned in a moment with good brown bread, some very 
tempting ham, and a bottle of wine whose aspect rejoiced my 
heart more than all the rest : a thick omelet was added to 
this, and I made a dinner such as no other wayfarer had 
ever known. When the moment of payment came, his dis- 
quiet and his fears returned ; he rejected the money with 
extraordinary uneasiness, and what made it ridiculous was, I 
could not imagine what he was afraid of. At last he pro- 
nounced, shuddering, these terrible words — ‘clerk’ and 
‘ cellar-rats ’ (excisemen). He made me understand that he 
hid the wine because of the duties, and hid his bread be- 
cause of the taille, and that he was a lost man if it should 
be discovered he was not starving. All that he told me on 
this subject, of which I had not the slightest idea [being 
Swiss], made upon me an ineffaceable impression. This was 
the origin of that unquenchable hatred which has grown in 
my heart ever since against those who vex and oppress an 
unfortunate people. This man, although well off, did not 
dare to eat of the bread he had gained by the sweat of 
his brow, and could only escape ruin by displaying the same 
misery as that which reigned around him, I came out of his 
house as indignant as I was sad, deploring the fate of these 
beautiful countries on which nature has lavished gifts only 
to make them the prey of barbarous tax-gatherers.” 

The case with which Kousseau met was only too com- 
mon in the last century in every province of France. 


STATE OF FRENCH PEASANTRY. 


23 


The more prosperous the wretched peasants seemed, the 
more heavily they were oppressed, and therefore they 
feared to show any signs of wellbeing. They would refuse 
the offers from their landlords to have tiles on their 
thatched huts, which let in wind and rain ; their im- 
plements were uncouth and broken, their few cattle lean 
as themselves, their fields ill manured and hardly tilled ; 
the slopes were left un planted with vines, for the col- 
lectors took all their profits, and they would often empty 
their wine into the river, being unable to pay the dues. 
If they got a coat to cover their rags, that was suffi- 
cient ground for collectors exacting more taille ; though 
they were starving, the lynx-eyed officials would detect 
and report the suspicious presence of two or three feath- 
ers of a fowl before their door, and the taxes thereupon 
were raised. In this condition of social oppression, the 
only way in which the poor could pieserve anything 
was by appearing to have nothing. > 

Jean Jacques, meanwhile, went cheerily on his way, 
and during the chilly nights slept now in a hut, now 
in the open air, now in a wayside inn, with hardly a sou 
to pay his fare. He forgot all his cares as he travelled in 
the brightness of the sunny days, or as he dreamt of some 
plan for an impossible to-morrow, lying at night stretched 
upon the ground as tranquilly as on a bed of roses. 

“ I remember having passed one delicious night outside 
the town [of Lyons], in a road which went along the side of 
the Rhone or the Sadne, I forget which. Some” gardens, raised 
on a terrace, bordered the road on the opposite side. It had 
been a very hot day ; the evening was charming : the dew 
moistened the parched grass ; no wind, a still night ; the air 
was fresh without being cold ; the sun after setting had left 
in the sky some red vapours, the reflections of which made the 


24 


BOUSSEAU. 


water rose colour ; the trees on the terraces were crowded 
with nightingales that answered one to another. I w'alked 
in a sort of ecstasy, opening my senses and my heart to 
enjoyment, and sighing only with a little regret to enjoy all 
this alone. Absorbed in my sweet reverie, I prolonged my. 
walk far into the night, without perceiving that I was weary. 
When I found it out at last, I lay down voluptuously on the 
shelf of a kind of niche or false doorway in the wall of the 
terrace. The canopy of my bed was formed by the tops of 
the trees ; a nightingale was exactly over my head, and I fell 
asleep to his song. My sleep was sweet, my waking sweeter 
still. It was full day : my eyes opened upon the water, the 
grass, and the delightful landscape. I rose and shook myself. 
Hunger seized me, and I walked gaily towards the town, 
resolved to spend on a good breakfast the two pieces ot 
money that were left to me. In high spirits I went singing 
along the way/’ 

As he walked on merrily, some one accosted him, 
asking if he could copy music ; and before an hour was 
qver he was in the house of one M. Rolichon, an en- 
thusiast, who set him to work, and gave him food and 
lodging, though he copied badly, and his work was spoilt 
by erasures, and full of blunders. In his new quarters 
he remained only a few days ; and receiving a summons 
from Madame de Warens, who was now in Chambery, 
he started off from Lyons to join her. 

He arrived at Chambery in the spring of 1732, and 
was received with open arms. He did not, however, 
here find the beauty of Annecy : there was no garden, 
no stream, no open country. The house was dark, in 
an alley rather than a street, with bad light, bad air, 
and dingy rooms. The household was a strange one. 
It consisted of the volatile hostess, Claude Anet, and 
Rousseau. Anet had been a peasant who had a know- 


LIFE OF CIIAMBISRY. 


25 


ledge of herbs, which made him useful in preparing her 
drugs; and he was a shrewd, reserved man of thirty, 
who made himself quietly essential, and acted at once as 
lover, servant, gardener, and herbalist. As the king had 
ordered a new survey of the country, Eousseau became 
a clerk in the office of the surveyor, where he got enough 
to live upon. He thought less of the rent books, 
however, than of the little concerts in Chambery, where 
Madame de Warens and Father Caton, the Cordelier, 
sang ; where Eoche the dancing-master played the violin, 
and Abbe Palais accompanied on the harpsichord ; while 
Eousseau himself with severe gravity, tempered by en- 
thusiasm, acted as conductor. All this pleasure ruined 
him for work. He began to feel that his career lay 
in music, and in spite of all remonstrances he gave up 
his post at the registry, where five hours of hateful 
toil in a dirty room, close air, and with boorish clerks, 
made him eager to snatch at any prospect of freedom ; 
and with improved qualifications he took up his old trade 
of teaching. He secured a few pupils ; but he was really 
dependent on Madame de Warens, who admitted him into 
closer and more intimate relations than ever, though she 
varied her love-passages with speculations of the most 
unremunerative order. Her house was infested by specu- 
lators of every sort, — charlatans, bubble-makers in trade 
and science, who made her poorer every day, while pro- 
fessing their power of making her fortune. To add to 
this, Claude Anet died, and she had reason to miss the 
cautious steward, who had looked after her money and 
managed her household, where now debts and troubles 
daily increased. Jean Jacques, with the best intentions 
in the world, was unable to add to her means, and could 


26 


ROUSSEAU. 


only by caresses comfort her for the loss of them. He 
began to feel, however, that he must really do something 
for himself ; and as a first step towards that laudable 
purpose he spent 800 francs belonging to his deeply in- 
debted mistress in books and music, and spent vainly 
days in practising and nights in copying Bameau’s com- 
positions. But the temptation of a concert, a walk, a 
supper, a romance to read, a play to see, sent his admi- 
rable resolutions to the winds. He had the strongest 
wish to save his mistress from ruin ; yet could not but 
feel that he might as well have the money as the knaves 
that deluded her, and accordingly with little scruple 
lived and travelled at her cost. 

In this way three or four very peaceful, very happy, 
very idle years passed by. In the summer of 1736 
Bousseau had a dangerous illness, and the lingering 
weakness produced by it rendered the fresh country air 
a necessity to him. Madame de Warens fixed upon 
Charmettes, a house not far from Chambery, but as 
“retired as if it had been a hundred miles away.” It 
lay beautifully in a valley formed by two hills, through 
which ran a stream beneath the shadows of the trees. In 
front of the chalet, with its red-tiled roof, was a terraced 
garden, an orchard laden with fruit above, and a vine- 
yard below, while opposite lay a little chestnut wood. 
Jean Jacques was delighted. “ Oh,” said he, embracing 
Madame de Warens, “this is the abode of happiness 
and innocence ; if we do not find them here, it will be 
in vain to seek them elsewhere.” Here they remained 
the summer, returning in winter to the warmer but 
duller shelter of Chambery. Bousseau never quitted his 
beloved Charmettes without turning again and again, 


CHARMETTES. 


27 


and kissing the ground and trees. “ Then began,” he 
says, “ the short happiness of my life ; there passed the 
peaceful hut rapid moments which have given me the 
right to say that I have lived. I rose with the sun and 
I was happy ; I walked and I was happy ; I saw maman 
and was happy ; I left her and was happy ; I roamed 
about the woods and the hills, and wandered through 
the valleys; I read, I was idle,- 1 worked in the garden, 

I gathered the fruit, I helped in the management, and 
happiness followed me everywhere.” Then he describes 
in detail the routine of daily pleasures. He rose before 
the sun every morning, and, walking through the vine- 
yard towards Chambery, listened to the distant bells 
in the morning air, and prayed, — “ not by a vain stam- 
mering of the lips, but a sincere elevation of the heart, 
to the author of lovely nature whose beauties were 
spread out before my eyes. I never like to pray in a 
room : it seems as if the walls and the little workman- 
ship of man interposed between God and myself.” As 
he drew near home, he watched to see if the shutters of 
“ mamma’s ” room were open, and then ran to the house. 
Their breakfast and their morning chat over, Rousseau 
studied till dinner — Locke, Descartes, or Leibnitz, or 
the ponderous Puffendorf. At twelve he quitted his 
books, and till dinner was served worked in the garden, 
or visited the pigeons, which knew him so well that 
they would trustingly perch on his head and shoulders, 
while bees settled tamely on his hands or face without 
in any way hurting him. After dinner he devoted * 
himself to idleness, a book that took his fancy, a walk, 
coffee with maman or friends in the arbour, enlivened, 
now by haymaking, now by the vintage. So passed the 


28 


ROUSSEAU. 


happy days in Charmettes. His fine-strung nature was 
sensitive to all things tender : the far-off sound of hells, 
the cooing of the turtle-dove, all touched him to tears, 
he could not tell why. Fondly he loved this sweet 
idleness, — to bask in the sun or loiter in the shadows of 
the chestnuts, to gaze for hours on the lovely scenery 
or the drifting clouds, to listen to songs of birds or to 
the murmur of the stream over its pebbly bed, ever in 
delicious reverie and in simple enjoyment of the passing 
hour, with no thought, no care of the morrow. 

Jean Jacques’ studies here became for a while more 
definite if not more successful than heretofore. Some 
time previously in Chambery, he had read Voltaire’s 
* Lettres Philosophiques,’ which served greatly to open 
his mind to literary interests. He began to arrange his 
reading according to subjects, to classify it, and fix his 
studies in his unretentive and most unsystematic head. 
Concentration of mind, however, was a positive pain to 
him ; his attention would wander into cloud-land after 
reading a few pages continuously of an author. He has 
described how, as he studied geometry, he went vainly 
hundreds of times over the same ground ; and when 
he worked at the Latin 1 Method ’ of Port Royal, as he 
learned one rule he forgot all the others. 

It must be noted, nevertheless, that he had a curious 
fondness for exaggerating his defects of memory, and his 
little mental as well as moral weaknesses; and it is 
evident that his vagrant studies at Chambery after all 
were not slight, and served him in good stead in after- 
years when writing his famous works. He even read 
theology, and the writings of Port Royal and the Oratoire 
made him half a Jansenist, and frightened him by their 


KELIGIOUS PROBLEMS. 29 

sombre doctrine. He troubled his inquisitive mind 
with the everlasting problems of grace and free will, 
and with the still more practical question of personal 
salvation, while the terror of hell agitated him greatly. 

He asked himself, “ What state am I in'? Should I 
die this moment, shall I be damned % ” According to 
the Jansenists, there was no doubt on the matter; but 
the decision of his conscience, and certainly his wishes, 
lay, as may be expected, quite the other way. He tells 
how — 

“ One day thinking on this sad subject, I occupied myself 
mechanically by throwing stones against the trunks of trees 
with my usual dexterity — that is to say, without touching 
one. All at once, in the midst of this fine exercise, I be- 
thought myself of making it a kind of prognostic to calm 
my disquietude. I said to myself, I will throw this stone 
against the tree opposite : if I touch it, that will be a sign 
of salvation ; if I miss, that will be a sign of damnation. * — 
As I said this, I threw a stone with trembling hand, and 
with a terrible beating of the heart, but so happily that it 
struck the middle of the tree, which was not a very difficult 
feat, seeing that I had chosen one very thick and very near. 
Since then I have never doubted of my salvation.” 

In this whimsical incident we may find a most char- 
acteristic instance of his lifelong propensity to form his 
convictions entirely upon his inclinations ; although it [ 
may be questioned if most people have more rational 
grounds than Jean Jacques for many jof the theolo-^ 
gical notions they fondly cherish. 

Eousseau’s health gave way again in 1737 or 1738, and 
having studied physiology quite enough to make him 
fancy that he had ailments of the direst order, he went 
to recover at Montpellier. Here a sentimental entangle- 


30 


ROUSSEAU. 


ment detained him, notwithstanding which he returned 
in December to Chambery, where Madame was in winter 
quarters, anticipating with beating heart the wonted re- 
ception from maman. “ Ah, child ! have you come 
back 1 have you had a pleasant journey 1 ” were the cool 
words with which Madame de Warens greeted the ardent 
Jean Jacques, while beside her stood a young man 
evidently very much at home. This fellow, who had 
established himself in the hospitable house and still 
more hospitable heart of Madame de Warens, was a jour- 
neyman wig-maker called Yintzenried, son of the keeper 
of the Castle of Chillon. Rousseau describes him, with 
no more impartiality than we need expect from a rival, as 
a flat-souled, flat-faced youth — though well enough made, 
he candidly grants. The intruder was vain, idle, and 
extravagant, and took upon him the position of master, 
while Rousseau was left out in the cold. He endured 
this as long as he could, shut himself up with his books, 
or sighed and wept in the woods : but as he was unable 
to exclude Yintzenried from Madame de Warens’s favour, 
or recover his old position, he resolved to go away. 
Fortunately an opportunity offered of settling himself at 
Lyons, where in 1740 he became tutor to the sons of M. 
de Mably, the elder brother of the famous Condillac, 
and of the Abbe whose philosophical works coincided in 
so many respects with Rousseau’s after-writings. Never 
was a man more out of his element, or less fitted to be 
a preceptor. He was impatient and passionate. “ When 
things went well,” as he says, “ 1 was an angel ; when 
they went wrong, I was a devil.” He made use of three 
means to influence the boys, which were all equally un- 
successful — sentiment, reason, and passion ; but he found 


TUTOR IN LYONS. 


31 


his tears were wasted, his reasons were generally refuted, 
and when he fell into a rage he only delighted his pupils, 
“who became philosophers as I became a child.” So 
the future educationalist had to confess, “Everything 
I undertook failed, because all I did to effect my pur- 
pose was exactly what I ought not to have done.” His 
happiest moments were spent in his room with locked 
doors, where he sat drinking M. de Mably’s Arbois wine 
and munching confectionery in delightful seclusion. Hut 
still he yearned after Charmettes, especially as l\e was 
unable to make Madame de Mably reciprocate the furtive 
affection he was willing to transfer to her. The bygone 
life of love, the old house with its garden, its fragrant 
meadows, its orchard, its delightful idleness, attracted 
him beyond his power of resistance, and he finally 
yielded to the temptation. He was received with kind- 
ness ; but, alas ! Charmettes seemed no longer the dear 
old place. His vain and insolent rival was still supreme, 
letting everything go to ruin, and leading his mistress 
to poverty. Jean Jacques kept himself to his little 
100m, composing music, writing a comedy, trying to 
occupy his thoughts with a new system by which musi- 
cal notes should be marked by figures. He began at 
length to fancy that he could make his fortune by this 
fine scheme, and determined to make the venture. 
Leaving his heart at Charmettes, he set out for Paris 
with magnificent projects in his head, with a comedy 
and musical system in his pocket, and with fifteen louis 
in his purse. 

He was now twenty-nine, having spent nearly nine 
years in the society of Madame de Warens, in the 
strange mixture of vagabondism and sentimentality, of 


32 


ROUSSEAU. 


fine feelings and shabby actions, of high moral enthu- 
siasm and unsavoury dependence, which make up the 
story of his early life. Few stories of an idle and un- 
victorious youth have attained such fame ; hut it is with 
a sense of relief that we accompany Rousseau into the 
wider world of Paris, where, at all events, the confusing 
mixture of sophistication and innocence, vice and virtue, 
exist no more. 


33 


t 


CHAPTER II. 

IN PARIS. 

Having passed through Lyons, where he saw the Hue 
de Richelieu, who promised him his favour, and having 
got from M. de Mably letters of introduction to some 
men of letters, Rousseau arrived in Paris in the autumn 
of 1741. He lodged in the squalid Hotel St Quentin, in 
the narrow dirty Rue des Cordiers, near the Luxemburg. 
His recommendations proved useful to him; hut although 
he says “ a young man who arrives in Paris with a toler- 
able figure, and announces himself by his talents, is sure 
to be well received,” he soon felt that he could not live 
on compliments, or even by dining occasionally at houses 
where his awkward manners made the company smile 
and servants sneer. While Rousseau was living in 
poverty in his garret, in his shabby inn, and trying in 
vain to make a livelihood by teaching music, -some of the 
greatest figures in French literature were to be found in 
Paris. Voltaire, then at the height of his fame, was 
living with Madame du Chatelet, either at Cirey or in 
the splendid mansion, Hotel Lambert, which she had 
just bought, working in his luxurious library overlook- 
ing the Seine, and receiving hosts of admiring guests, 
F.C. XVII. C 


34 


KOUSSEAU. 


while Jean Jacques was wandering hungrily in the 
boulevards. Fontenelle, now nearly ninety years old, 
chatty, cheery, and heartless, was trotting about from 
salon to salon , where he sat in the easiest chair in the 
warmest corner, finding his deafness no disadvantage in 
the ceaseless talk arouifd him. D’Alembert, five years 
younger than Rousseau, was already famous, but still 
found a home with the good ' glazier’s widow, who had 
brought him up as a foundling, in the Hue Michel le 
Comte ; though, strange to say, he was not seldom to be 
found in the brilliant drawing-room of Madame de 
Tencin, whose illegitimate son he was, and whom she 
had abandoned as an infant. Montesquieu was preparing 
for the greatest of his works, £ L’Esprit des Lois,’ which 
appeared seven years later. Buffon, now thirty - four 
years old, came to Paris every year to visit the Jardin du 
Roi, with reluctance leaving his study in Montbar, where 
he had begun the great work on natural history which 
occupied him for forty years. Diderot, about Rousseau’s 
own age, had been seven years in Paris, but was still 
living a ragged Bohemian life in his garret, eking out a 
living by teaching or writing as bookseller’s hack, glad 
when able to spend a few sous at the Cafe de la 
Regence, and watch with envy the flayers at chess. 

Rousseau was impatient to have his musical system 
tried, and in August 1742 he at last got his memoir read 
before the Academy of Sciences. It was duly compli- 
mented, and a committee of three gentlemen — who, after 
they rejected his invention, he felt convinced knew 
nothing about it — was appointed to examine the system. 
The author considered the great merit of his scheme to 
consist in the superseding of transpositions and keys, so 


HIS MUSICAL SYSTEM. 


35 


tliat the same piece was noted and transposed at will by 
means of the change of a single letter placed at the head 
of the air. He was astonished at the ease with which 
they answered his unready arguments, and with a few 
sonorous phrases refuted his statements without under- 
standing his theory. 

The Academy granted a certificate which, though 
full of compliments, implied to ' the author’s disgust 
that the scheme was neither useful nor new, and 
Eousseau was left to the barren reflection that “all 
these learned men who know so many things, really 
know so little that each should only judge of his 
own craft.” Though his project was a failure, and 
his account of it, which he published with difficulty, 
brought neither money nor fame, his acquaintance with 
men of letters was considerably increased. Fonten- 
elle and Marivaux endeavoured to give him literary 
advice ; Diderot, allied to him by a common poverty 
and common musical taste, discussed with him his 
schemes. All this time he had little to do in Paris, 
except walk about in the Luxemburg gardens, com- 
mitting to memory passages from the poets which he 
always forgot next morning; playing chess at a cafe 
on the evenings he did not go to the theatre ; and al- 
though never making the slightest progress, never losing 
the conviction, even while he played chess with the great 
Philidor, that he would one day surpass every one, and 
gain high distinction thereby in society. Meanwhile, 
as he was dreaming of an impossible future, he was 
rapidly sinking into beggary; but fortunately an eccen- 
tric friend, Father Castel, albeit he was somewhat mad, 
showed some wisdom in recommending that since men 


36 


ROUSSEAU. 


did not believe in his musical system, he should now 
see if ladies, to whom the kindly priest had spoken of 
him, would not regard it with favour. He accordingly 
called on Madame de Beuzenval, who received him 
graciously, praised his plan, and asked him to dinner : 
he found, however, to his supreme disgust, that he was 
expected to dine with the servants, but a judicious 
whisper from the lady’s daughter remedied this mistake. 
When he first arrived in town, his awkwardness was 
so great that when his plate was tendered to him, 
instead of taking it he dabbed his fork into the con- 
tents to extract modestly the smallest pieces, whereupon 
the company must have smothered their laughter, and 
the servants tittered behind the chairs. Soon, however, 
he became used to society, and was often at Madame 
Dupin’s, “ where few people save dukes, ambassadors, 
and blue ribbons were to be met,” or such leaders in 
letters and science as Buffon, Fontenelle, and Montes- 
quieu. He visited here incessantly, dined twice or 
thrice a - week, and with his wonted infatuation he 
had the audacity even to make love to the cold and 
beautiful Madame Dupin. No wonder the letter he 
wrote to her was returned with a rebuke which “ froze 
his blood,” and it was quietly suggested to him that 
his visits were a great deal too frequent. 

After an unsuccessful expedition to Venice, as secre- 
tary (at the rate of £50 a-year) to M. Montaigu, the 
French ambassador there, Rousseau returned to Paris, 
improved at least in music, and resumed his lodging in 
the dingy little Hotel St Quentin, where he found 
amongst his equivocal companions coarse Gascon abbes 
out of pocket, and Irish priests out of place. At this 


THER&SE LE VASSEUR. 


6t 


inn there was a girl of about twenty-two years old, em- 
ployed by the landlady as a seamstress, whom Rousseau 
met at dinner, and whom he championed amidst the 
brutal raillery of the mean society in which he lived, and 
from the noisy rudeness of the vulgar landlady. His 
pity for her grew into affection. He liked the unpro- 
tected girl who looked simple because she was dull, and, 
modestly said nothing because she had really nothing to 
say. He removed Ther&se le Yasseur from this un- 
wholesome place as his companion, and the union thus 
formed lasted, amidst all troubles and miseries, through- 
out his life. He paints Therese as estimable, grateful, 
and modest. Previous events did not exactly justify 
this praise, nor did her after-history sustain the char- 
acter. She did much to mar the happiness of a man whom 
she was able neither to understand, to appreciate, nor to 
guide : she was exceedingly stupid, she never read, and 
she could hardly write, her surviving letters being marvels 
of cacography . 1 For a whole month Rousseau tried in 
vain to teach her the hours on a sun-dial,- — she could 
never distinguish one numeral from another ; she could 
not name the months of the year in order ; she could not 
count money, or learn the price of anything. She was 
quarrelsome, sly, deceitful, and coarse, greedy of money 
and gossip. But Rousseau saw none of her faults, ex- 
cused her stupidity, and felt that she was a constant 
blessing to him. 

1 Here is a specimen of her letter - writing in 1762 : “ Mesiceuras 
ancor mieu re mies quan gen cenres o pres deu vous, e deu vous tem- 
oes tous la goies e latandres deu mon querque vous cones ces que 
getou gour e rus pour vous.” — Streckeisen-Moultou : Rousseau, ses 
Amis et ses Ennemis, ii. 450. After Rousseau’s death Therese signs 
her letters “ fame deu gean ieacque rousseau.” 


38 


ROUSSEAU. 


Accordingly, Rousseau tells us “he lived with Ills 
Therese as agreeably as with the finest genius in the 
world.” Of course there was no great disparity between 
them in social rank and tastes. He himself had sprung 
from the ranks, and had not sprung very far, and always 
retained his humble tastes. Rousseau preferred his com- 
fort in a cafe, or an inn, with its unceremonious talk, to 
the most brilliant conversation and finest Burgundy at 
Baron d’Holbach’s table : he was far more at home din- 
ing with Pilleu the mason at Montmorency, than with 
even the simple-minded Marshal de Luxemburg. No- 
thing pleased him more than, in the society of Therese, 
to walk outside the city, where he “ magnificently spent 
eight or ten sous at an ale-house ; ” or in the evening, 
in the recess of the window, to sit with her on chairs 
placed on a trunk, where they partook of their frugal 
supper and could enjoy the view of the neighbourhood 
from the commanding eminence of the fourth storey where 
they lodged, in the Rue de Grenelle. 

“Who can describe.” he says, “and how few can feel, the 
charm of these repasts, consisting of a quarter of a loaf, a few 
cherries, a bit of cheese, a half- pint of wine, which we drank 
between us ? We sometimes remained in this position until 
midnight, and never thought of the hour unless informed 
by the old woman. But let us leave these details, which 
are either insipid or laughable. I have always said and felt 
c=> lf\\aX. true enjoyment cannot be described.” 

This “old woman” was Tlierese’s mother, a shop- 
keeper. She wa,s a coarse, greedy harpy, whom Jean 
Jacques hated, and yet endured most patiently, though 
she disgusted him with wretched attempts at wit, 
wearied him with her scandal, and helped herself to 


LITE 11 Alt Y STRUGGLES. 


39 


his money. Rousseau soon found that though his funds 
were decreasing, he had now seven or eight persons to sup- 
port; for Madame le Vasseur brought her whole family 
from Orleans to Paris, and they clung like so many leeches 
to him. They suddenly manifested a tender affection 
for Therese, whom they had always ill-treated before, and 
got hold of her little earnings ; they looked on Rousseau 
as excellent plunder; they got food and clothes, they 
borrowed and stole from him ; and even the nieces pil- 
laged Therese, and called Jean Jacques endearingly 
by the name of “ uncle.” 

Rousseau, meanwhile, was busy working for the stage. 
He wrote, at the Due de Richelieu’s direction, altera- 
tions both in the music (which was by Rameau) and in 
the words of Voltaire’s “ Princesse de Navarre,” in order 
to fit it for appearing, under the name of “Fetes de 
Ramire,” at Versailles. His comedy of “Narcisse” was 
accepted by the Theatre des Italiens, but not performed ; 
his “Muses Galantes,” a musical piece, was rehearsed 
at the Opera-house, but he could not get it accepted, 
although it was performed privately with success at the 
house of Madame de la Popliniere, where old Rameau, 
the fashionable composer, vexed him by saying that 
most of the music was worthless, and by hinting that 
the only good part was stolen. He became literary 
secretary to Madame Dupin and her stej>son, M. de 
Franceuil, at the rate of 900 francs, trudging home at 
night to his supper and his Therese in his shabby lodg- 
ings. This appointment was more advantageous from the 
society with which he was brought in contact, than from 
the salary. The leaders of the coterie he thus entered 
were the wives of farmers-general, whose wealth alone 


40 


ROUSSEAU. 


would have earned them to social heights; and it is 
curious that a man like Rousseau, who never ceased 
denouncing the rich, and the iniquitous taxes to which 
these farmers-general owed their wealth, should himself 
have had as his best patrons the wives of these very 
men. Madame de la Popliniere, frail as she was fair, 
Madame Dupin, Madame d’Epinay, whose husbands 
farmed the taxes, were his best supporters, and through 
them he was introduced to those who had rank, or wit, or 
fortune. He had social qualities of his own, however, 
that justified the notice taken of him ; he had rubbed off 
much of his Savoy awkwardness, and, though never 
ready, he knew what to say and how to pay a compli- 
ment. He made the acquaintance of Madame d’Epinay 
through Franceuil, who was then her lover, and he was 
often invited to her entertainments at Chevrette, near 
St Denis, where he sometimes acted, playing a part 
in his own comedy of the “ Engagement Temeraire.” 
Madame d’Epinay’s first impression of him was that 
“ he is given to pay compliments, yet he is not polite, 
or at least has not the air of being so. He seems 
ignorant of the ways of society, but it is easy to see 
that he is infinitely intelligent. He has a brown 
complexion, and eyes full of fire animate his face. 
When he has spoken, and as one looks at him, he is 
comely ; but when one recalls his face, it is always 
plain. It is said that he is in bad health, which he is 
careful to conceal, from some motive of vanity. Evi- 
dently it is that which gives him occasionally a sullen 
air .” 1 His original conversation, his unconventional 
ways, and his deferential manner, pleased her greatly, 
1 Madame d’Epinay’s Mdmoires, i. 175. 


ROUSSEAU AS A TATHER. 


41 


and he was often at Chevrette, where he must have 
been hailed as the freshest acquisition ever made to the 
artificial society of France. In Paris, his most intimate 
literary friend was Diderot, and they, together with 
Condillac, met once a-week at the Palais Royal, where 
they dined and discussed freely music, art, religion, and 
philosophy. The * Dictionnaire Encyelopedique,’ which 
was to have so remarkable a career, was at this time in 
preparation by Diderot and D’Alembert, and Rousseau 
accepted an offer to write the musical part. In three 
months he had his essay on Music finished, and got 
for it very slight remuneration. 

His domestic cares were increasing apace. Therese 
gave birth to a child, and Jean Jacques resolved to send 
it to a foundling hospital. This idea had been suggested 
to him by the loose talk he had heard in an eating-house 
he frequented; and as other people had relieved their 
cares in this way, he did not see why he should not do 
the same. Without hesitation on his part, the child 
was deposited at the office of the hospital. Rousseau 
satisfied any scruples he might have felt by attaching 
a card with a cipher to the clothing of the infant, the 
duplicate being given to Therese, who bitterly felt this 
cruel resolution. Next year another child was born, 
and sent likewise to the hospital, — tfie cipher this time, 
however, being neglected. This happened in succession 
with five children, on each occasion to the intense grief 
of poor Therese, and without the slightest compunc- 
tion on the part of Jean Jacques. Such conduct it 
is not easy for the most ingenious mind to excuse on 
any ground, and he himself, with all his sophistry, has 
failed to palliate such crimes against pure human instincts. 


42 


ROUSSEAU. 


"We read almost with disgust his letter in 1751 to Madame 
do Franceuil, in which cant seems set to eloquence. 
He urges that if his misery robbed him of the power of 
fulfilling so dear a duty, he deserved pity and not re- 
proach ; he had hard work to do to gain his bread, and 
how could he earn it if domestic troubles and disturb- 
ances left him no peace in his garret ? Soon he would 
have been obliged to resort to patronage and intrigue, 
and give himself to infamies his soul abhorred. “ Ho, 
madame ; it were better for them to be orphans than 
to have a scoundrel for their father.” If, in a found- 
ling hospital, the children had no luxuries, they would 
have at least everything that was necessary; if they 
were not delicately bred as gentlemen, they would be 
trained to be healthy peasants — and it was better to 
be mechanics than authors. He blames the rich for 
depriving the poor like himself of the means of sup- 
porting their offspring ; he pleads bitterly for com- 
miseration on the ground of never having “ tasted the 
sweetness of a father’s embrace.” Unfortunately, this 
pathetic plea is curiously like that of the French advo- 
cate who, pleading for mercy on his client who had 
murdered his parents, in forensic despair exclaimed, 
“ Pity him, for he is an orphan ! ” Jean Jacques aban- 
dons his children, and cries, “ Pity me, for I am child- 
less!” Indeed, with his faculty for sublimating self- 
J ishness into sacrifice, he asserted many years afterwards 
that he would do the same again, as saving them 
from a destiny a thousand times worse. “ Had I 
had less concern for what might become of them, 
not being in a situation to train children myself, I. 
should have left them to their mother, who would 


ROUSSEAU AS A FATIlEil. 


43 


have spoiled them, and to her family, who would have 
made them monsters .” 1 Stripped, however, of all sen- 
timental phrases and of all pretence, the plain reasons 
seem to have been — he was poor and did not care to 
spoil his comfort by keeping them ; he liked his, own 
freedom, and did not wish to be hampered by having 
them ; he was excitable, and did not want to be worried 
by rearing them. He therefore did what was most con- 
venient for himself, and, as usual, laid the blame on 
others : he loved children much, but he loved his ease 
a great deal more ; he enjoyed the luxury of affection, 
but, like his father, he would undergo no sacrifice for 
the object of it ; wrong-doing could be made up for by 
easy remorse, and Rousseau greatly preferred the remorse 
to the trouble of doing right. This he himself admits : 
“When my duty and my heart were at variance, the 
former seldom got the victory. To act from duty in 
opposition to inclination I found impossible .” 2 


1 Reveries, iv. 


* Ibid., vi. 


u 


CHAPTER III. 

LITERARY SUCCESS. 

In 1749 Diderot was a prisoner at Vincennes for pub- 
lishing his ‘ Letter on the Blind ’ — -a work which brought 
him punishment less for the atheistical views it taught 
than for a sneer it contained at the mistress of a Min- 
ister. One hot summer day Rousseau walked out from 
Paris to see his friend. As he strolled along he took out 
the * Mercure de France ’ to read, and his eye fell upon 
the announcement that the Academy of Dijon pro- 
posed as subject for a prize essay the question — “ Has 
the progress of the Arts and Sciences helped to corrupt 
or to purify morals 1 ” “ All at once,” says Rousseau, 1 

“ I saw another world, and became another man.” “ In 
an instant I felt my head dazzled by a thousand lights ; 
crowds of new ideas presented themselves at once with 
a force and confusion which threw me into inexpressible 
agitation. I felt my head seized with a giddiness like 
intoxication ; a violent palpitation oppressed me. Un- 
able to breathe walking, I lay down under one of the 
trees in the avenue and passed half an hour in such 
agitation, that on rising I saw all the front of my waist- 

1 Confessions, Bk. viii. 


DISCOURSE ON ARTS AND SCIENCES. 


45 


coat moist with my tears, which I had unconsciously 
shed upon it .” 1 Reaching Vincennes in a state of great 
excitement, he told Diderot the cause of it, and how he 
had resolved to show that the corruption of society was 
due to its cultivation of arts and letters and sciences, 
showing him, at the same time, a passage he had written 
under the tree. His friend encouraged him to follow out 
the idea and compete for the prize. This is his own 
account of the matter : unfortunately another story 2 is 
told on the authority of Diderot by Marmontel, Morel- 
let, and La Harpe, which differs widely from Rous- 
seau’s. According to this version, Jean Jacques went one 
day to consult Diderot about competing for the prize. 
“ What side do you intend to take h ” asked his friend. 
“ I shall prove that the progress of art and science 
purify morals.” “Ah, that is the bridge of asses!” 
exclaimed Diderot. “All ordinary talents will take 
that road, and you will tind only commonplace ideas ; 
take the other side, and you will make a great com- 
motion .” 3 This is one of those puzzling cases, where 

1 Second letter to Malesherbes. 

2 To which, however, Diderot himself gives little support in his 
writings, even when he is denouncing Jean Jacques as “a wretch” 
with all his vigour : “ Lorsque la programme de l’Academie de Dijon 
parut, il vient me consulter sur le parti qu’il prendrait. ‘ Le parti 
que vous prendrez,’ lui dis-je, ‘ c’est celui que personne ne prendra.’ 
‘Vous avez raison,’ me replique-t-il.” — Essai sur les Regnes de 
Claude et de Neron : (Euvres, viii. 168. It is so far in Rousseau’s 
favour that Grimm, ever the friend of Diderot, and hostile to 
Jean Jacques, in his Correspondence does not cast a doubt on Rous- 
seau’s originality. 

3 Abbe Morel let tells the story from Diderot’s lips most circum- 
stantially ; and as the discrepancy is curious, we may quote wbat 
Diderot is reported to have said to Rousseau when he went to Vin- 
cennes and explained his ideas on the advantages ot arts and sciences. 


46 


ROUSSEAU. 


the best authorities are in hopeless opposition. Nothing 
is more decided than Rousseau’s statement to Males- 
herbes made in 1762, yet it is not more decided than 
Diderot’s own opposite account, which must have been 
told much earlier, for in 1760 we find Marmontel, at Les 
Delices, regaling Voltaire with the piquant story. That 
Diderot made suggestions, and that to him some passages 
were due which Rousseau lamented using, is all that is 
owned by the author ; and certainly the views advocated 
in the Discourse are those most congenial to Jean 
Jacques’ own character, and which he developed with 
remarkable intensity and evident sincerity, in all his 
after- writings. At the same time Diderot, though given 
to exaggeration, was not a man to say false and malicious 
things. In default of any better solution, therefore, we 
must suppose that both stories are one-sided, and that 
both friends were of opinion that to argue the paradoxical 
theory was the best course — Rousseau from sentiment, 
Diderot from ingenuity ; and the more the author 
thought out his theory, the more profoundly convinced he 
became of its truth. Eagerly, when the subject fastened 
on his excited mind, Jean Jacques worked at it. He 

“That is not what you should do,” said Diderot ; “there is nothing 
new, nothing piquant in that ; it is the bridge of asses. Take the 
other side, and see what an immense field lies before you: all the 
abuses of society to note ; all the evils which desolate it ; all the 
sciences, arts, employed in commerce, in war, — so many sources of 
destruction and of misery to the greatest part of men. Printing, 
the compass, gunpowder, the working of mines, all so many advances 
in human knowledge, and so many causes of ca 1 amity. Do you not 
see all the advantage you will have in taking this for your subject ? ” 
— Memoires de Morellet, i. 116. We must own that we should have 
more confidence in the Abbe if he did not profess to remember so 
much. 


DISCOURSE ON ARTS AND SCIENCES. 


47 


devoted his many sleepless nights to turning and re-turn- 
ing his periods “with incredible pains;” hut before he 
was dressed in the morning, the elevated ideas and 
admirable phrases disappeared, and he could not remem- 
ber one. He then thought of getting the services of 
Madame 3e Yasseur, who lighted his fire in the morn- 
ings ; and as he lay in bed, he dictated to the old woman 
what he had composed during the night. 

Bold and original as the idea was to write an essay 
for an Academy in condemnation of the arts and sciences 
which it was instituted to further, it was still more bold 
and original on the part of such an Academy to reward 
an author for the literary power with which he censured 
literature, and condemned science, art, and academies 
themselves. In the Discourse, in which he has said he 
imitated the literary style of Diderot, he seems to have 
found an outlet for his pent-up social animosities : an 
obscure writer, he could speak bitterly of those whose 
names were on every lip ; an unscientific man, he could 
scorn those whose systems of philosophy were filling the 
world with interest, and whose theories gave occasion 
for endless debate; poor, he scoffed at wealth and its 
luxury ; unpolished, he mocked at the insincerity and 
affectation of fashionable life ; inexpert and slow of wit, 
he rebuked the pertness and nimble talk of refined 
society. He has measured the literary value of his essay 
when he says, that though full of heat and force, it is 
devoid of logic and order, and that of all his writings it 
is the feeblest in reasoning and poorest in harmony — 
“ for the art of writing is not learnt at once.” Indeed 
the side it adopts is that which a clever youth in a 
debating society would take to show his ingenuity, and 


48 


EOUSSEAU. 


then vote against in order to show his good sense. But 
what invests the Discourse with interest, is the fact that 
it contains the germ of the doctrine of all his after- 
writings, and reveals the whole character of the man, 
with all his violence against hereditary customs and 
social distinctions and restraints. The theory, no doubt, 
is a paradox ; but then so was the man himself. 

He sees purity and honesty only in that golden age 
when science and letters were unknown, and when men 
lived in primeval simplicity and ignorance ; and asserts 
that in a state of civilisation, and especially in the 
society of France, no man appears as he really is. 
“ Suspicions, distrust, fears, coldness, reserve, hatred, 
treachery, hide themselves under this uniform and per- 
fidious veil of politeness — under this urbanity so much 
vaunted, which we owe to the enlightenment of our 
age.” Men have become debased as science and art 
have progressed; and dissoluteness and slavery have 
always been the punishment of man’s efforts to rise 
from the ignorance in which divine wisdom has placed 
him. It was thus that Egypt, Greece, and Rome were 
corrupted, and by their corruption were ruined as na- 
tions. There were only a few races who preserved 
themselves from the contagion of useless knowledge, and 
were, in consequence, examples of virtue to the world, — 
such as Persia, Scythia, the ancient Germans, and above 
all, Sparta, famed for its happy ignorance and its wise 
laws — “a republic of demigods rather than of men, so 
much do their virtues seem superior to humanity.” It 
is from mean sources that all philosophy arises. 

“ Astronomy is due to superstition ; eloquence to ambition, 
falsehood, and flattery ; geometry to avarice ; physics to idle 


DISCOURSE ON ARTS AND SCIENCES. 


49 


curiosity ; and moral philosophy, like all the others, to human 
pride. From vices they spring, by vices they are fostered; 
for what would become of arts if they were not cherished by 
luxury ? of jurisprudence, if men were not unjust ? of history, 
if there were no tyrants, no wars, no conspiracies ? ” 

Useless as are their objects, the sciences are still more 
dangerous in their results. They are born of indolence, 
and in their turn they encourage it ; they cause an ir- 
reparable waste of time, and each useless citizen can be 
only regarded as a pernicious man. 

“Answer me, illustrious philosophers, you who know why 
bodies attract each other in a vacuum, what are, in planetary 
revolutions, the relations of areas traversed in equal times ; 
what curves have conjugated points, and points of inflection 
and reflection ; how man sees everything in God ; how the 
body and the soul correspond, without communication, like 
two watches ; what stars are inhabited : answer me, I say, 
you who have received such sublime knowledge, whether if 
you had never taught us these tilings we should have been 
less numerous, less formidable, less flourishing, worse gov- 
erned, or more vicious ? If the works of the most enlight- 
ened of our learned men and of our best citizens procure us 
so little that is useful, tell me what we ought to think of that 
crowd of obscure writers and idle litterateurs who waste the 
substance of the State? Idle, do I say? Would to God 
they really were so ! Morals would then be more healthy, 
and society more peaceful. But those vain and useless de- 
claimers on every side, armed with noxious paradoxes, sap 
the foundations of faith and annihilate virtue. They smile 
disdainfully at those old words, country and religion, and 
devote their talents and their philosophy to destroy and de- 
grade all that is sacred among men. . . . What will men not 
do in their nge to be distinguished ! ” 

Besides idleness, there is engendered by the arts and 
sciences in every age luxury, with consequent corruption 

f.c. — XVII. D 


50 


ROUSSEAU. 


of taste, effeminacy of character, and degradation of 
morals. In education the young are taught almost 
everything except their duties; in literature, to gain a 
livelihood, men write everything except what is of value ; 
in society, men and women have refinement of manners 
without charity, purity, or sincerity ; in philosophy we 
have only quacks with various nostrums, each crying in 
the market-place, “ Come to me, — there is no deception 
here,” on whom contemporaries lavish esteem during 
life, or confer immortality after death. If our descend- 
ants knew all, and compared the honest works of pagan 
times with the shameful modern works perpetuated 
through the art of printing, “they would lift up their 
hands to heaven and say, in very bitterness of heart, 
‘Almighty God, who holdest in Thy hands the spirits 
of men, deliver us from the enlightenment and fatal arts 
of our fathers, and give us the ignorance, innocence, and 
poverty which alone can make us happy, and which are 
precious in Thy sight.’ ” 

Such is the invective with which, amidst his eloquent 
sophistry, he assailed society. It might he expected 
that on his own premises we should burn our books, 
cease to educate our children, and return as soon as 
possible to that primitive ignorance which was truly 
bliss ; but Rousseau, as St Marc Girardin remarks, 
though he always begins his writings with a paradox, 
generally concludes with common-sense. He does not 
intend, after all, that society should carry out his argu- 
ment to its logical results — abolish all libraries, close 
every university. By that course, he elsewhere explain- 
ed, we should gain nothing ; Europe would be replunged 
into barbarism, and the vices would remain, only with 


DISCOURSE ON ARTS AND SCIENCES. 


51 


ignorance added to them. “ It is,” he replies to Stanis- 
laus of Poland, who wrote against his Discourse, — “ it is 
with grief I pronounce a great and fatal truth ; there is 
only one step from knowledge to ignorance, and the 
change from the one to the other is frequent amongst 
nations, but one has never seen a people once corrupted 
return to virtue. Leave, then, the sciences and arts to 
soften in some degree the men whom they have corrupted. 
The intelligence of the had is less to he feared than their 
brutal stupidity.” This Discourse, in denouncing litera- 
ture, made the fame of Rousseau as a man of letters ; and 
the almost insolent brilliancy with which he attacked 
social corruption, brought this adventurer - prophet to 
the height of social popularity. Diderot’s expectation 
as to the result of the Discourse was more than fulfilled. 
“ It takes,” wrote Diderot, who got it published for him, 
“ right above the clouds : never was such a success.” It 
did not matter that he had insulted salons and savants , 
for he had not said a word against any individual, and 
people do not feel an indictment against a whole class. 
In the midst of their conventional and artificial life they 
found it refreshing to listen to this strange voice that 
spoke so vigorously, so freshly, and so boldly his jere- 
miad on the age : and his conduct soon furnished fresh 
reason for remark. 

Up till the publication of the Discourse in 1750, Rous- 
seau had been a sort of secretary under M. de Franceuil ; 
and now his employer, who was made Receiver-General 
of Finance, offered him the post of cashier. Jean Jacques 
accepted the office, fulfilling the duties -with extreme dis- 
like and extreme difficulty (for it was utterly alien to his 
taste and capacity), until the anxiety of being once left 


52 


ROUSSEAU. 


in temporary charge of 30.000 livres during M. de Fran- 
ceuil’s absence did much to bring on an illness which 
nearly proved fatal. He began to brood over his posi- 
tion, and to ask himself, “Is it possible to reconcile the 
severe principles I have adopted to a situation with 
which they have so little in common? How r should 
I, the cash-keeper of a Receiver-General of Finance, 
preach poverty and disinterestedness ? ” 111, and think- 

ing he had not long to live, he therefore resolved to 
pass the remainder of his days in independence and 
poverty. Accordingly, he resigned his appointment; 
and though called a madman for his pains, he persisted 
in his resolution. He began to dress in accordance with 
his assumed poverty. He gave up laced clothes and 
white stockings, discarded the ample peruke for a round 
wig, laid aside his sword, and sold his watch, saying to 
himself with intense satisfaction, “ Thank heaven, I 
shall no longer need to know the time.” His linen, 
however, which had formed part of his outfit as secretary 
in Venice, remained; but this inconsistency was soon 
removed, for one Christmas eve, when all were from 
home, his garret was broken into and “ forty-two of my 
shirts of very fine linen ” were stolen — suspicion resting 
confidently on a blackguard brother of Therese as the 
thief. 

He sought a livelihood now as a copier of music at 
ten sous a page ; but society was determined he should 
not be independent. How that he was famous, people 
were exceedingly ready to help him : they pestered him 
with presents which he did not want, and with invita- 
tions which he would not accept : nor did Therese and 
her mother help him in maintaining his proud independ- 


COPYRIGHT OF MUSIC. 


53 


ence. They cunningly took gifts and asked money 
from his admirers without his knowledge, though often 
he noticed mysterious confidential whisperings going on 
between them and his friends which made him wretched. 
He began to change his whole manner, and became rude 
and churlish ; for, not knowing and not being able to 
acquire the tone and manners of society, he says, “ I 
became sour and cynical from shame, and affected to 
despise the politeness which I knew not how to practise.” 
Grimm says of him much the same, that “ till the appear- 
ance of the Discourse he was addicted to paying compli- 
ments, polite, affected, with a conversation even honeyed, 
and tiresome from its elaborate turns. All at once he 
assumed the mantle of a cynic ; but not being natural 
to the character, he went to excess. Yet in darting his 
sarcasms he always knew how to make exceptions in 
favour of those with whom he lived ; and he preserved, 
especially with ladies, much of that affected refinement 
and art of making laboured compliments in spite of his 
brusque and cynical tone.” 1 Marmontel, who was not 
a friendly critic, says his manner was at first obsequious 
and humble, while his eyes observed everything with 
attention full of suspicion. 

Rousseau, notwithstanding his unsocial bearing, was 
constantly in society, where, however, amongst clever 
if superficial talkers, he was generally sullen and silent ; 
for, as he has said, “ I have always wit a quarter of an 
hour after everybody else.” 

Rarely has society been so social as in those days 
when Louis XY. was king. Never were salons so full 
of women of grace and men of talent, who cultivated the 
1 Grimm’s Corresp. Lit., iii. 58. 


54 


ROUSSEAU. 


fine art of conversation so highly that if they were ever 
tiresome it was in their fatiguing efforts to escape being 
dull. . “ A moral subject,” says Bousseau, “ could not 
be better discussed in a society of philosophers than in 
that of a pretty woman in Paris.” Ladies gave forth 
with delightful confidence their opinions on everything 
on earth, and with clever doubt on everything above 
it ; boudoir abbes took pains to prevent the world from 
supposing that their religious profession involved any 
sort of religious convictions; men of wit and fashion 
with most graceful manners and sadly graceless lives 
uttered their admirable epigrams and piquant stories, 
which might be too broad but which never were too 
long ; men of science like D’Alembert and Buff'on, men 
of letters like Marivaux and Marmontel, philosophers 
like Diderot and Voltaire, all spoke their best on what 
they knew the most. There was abundance of sentiment, 
but there was little feeling in that society suffering from 
“ paralysis of the heart.” They would weep readily over 
Bichardson’s 1 Clarissa,’ but only feel the worst misfor- 
tunes of their friends a subject of curiosity to-day and 
a bore to-morrow. In this heartless, restless, glittering 
society people must have something to do when whist 
and trictrac tired them ; and fashions came and went 
with bewildering rapidity. To unravel (par filer) is for 
some time the rage ; and at every house we see a 
group of brilliantly dressed people with fluent tongues 
discussing every topic, and with nimble fingers un- 
ravelling trimmings, tearing up epaulets and dresses 
to pick out the gold and silver threads. A bag is 
produced on a table, a circle of ladies is formed, 
and they tear up a dress as quickly as a character to 


SOCIETY IN PAIIIS. 


55 


shreds. All hands are busy till supper is announced at 
10 o’clock; gentlemen join in the task, and often have 
the expensive honour of also supplying the material. 
In the circles which met in the houses of persons like 
Madame Dupin or the Comtesse de Boufflers, or still 
higher, the Duchesse de Luxemburg, none were so heartily 
welcomed as men of letters, and nothing was so readily 
received as their theories. The opinions of Voltaire 
sounded less audacious from dainty lips ; the materialist 
views of Helvetius lost their grossness, and the eco- 
nomic theories of Quesnay lost their dulness, in the 
choice phrases which passed from high-bred dames and 
epigrammatic dbbes ; the democratic notions which lauded 
equality were echoed by aristocrats of the bluest blood ; 
the volumes of Button lay on the toilet-table of ladies, 
who also crowded to the lectures of Rollet on elec- 
tricity, or of Rouelle on chemistry. It is significant 
of the tone of talk, that Madame de Grafigny could say 
that Helvetius’s ‘ De l’Esprit,’ a work resolving all virtue 
to selfishness, was composed of “ the sweepings of her 
salon” To have celebrity was enough to gain entrance 
into the highest society, which asked about a man, not 
who was his father, but what had he done 1 

There were salons for every coterie, for every taste, 
and on every day. On Sunday and Wednesday Baron 
d’Holbach had his dinner-parties ; on Monday Madame 
Geoffrin, “ the nurse of philosophers,” had men of art 
such as Vanloo and Boucher, and on Thursday men of 
letters and science — Thomas, Marivaux, Raynal, D’Alem- 
bert — at her table; on Tuesday Helvetius entertained; 
while on other nights one might go to Madame du 
Deffand, blind, spiteful, and witty (whom Rousseau cor- 


56 


ROUSSEAU. 


dially hated), who for years did not discover to her rage 
that her clever companion Madlle. de Lespinasse nightly 
received her guests in her own little room, and stole the 
cream of the conversation, while Madame was being 
dressed to appear in her salon at 6 o’clock. There were 
not a few other women of brilliant talent “ who violated 
all the common duties of life, and gave very pleasant 
little suppers.” Less reserved parties met at Madlle. 
Quinault’s, the actress, of whose evenings at home Madame 
d’Epinay gives us a curious glimpse. At her house 
we see everything discussed with startling freedom, 
especially after the servants have left the room, and 
the little niece is sent away after dessert; because, 
as Madlle. Quinault sagaciously remarks, “ When one’s 
elbows are on the table, one can talk whatever comes 
uppermost.” The conversation passes on to consider the 
basis of morals and of religion, while sentiments are 
expressed (an abbe being characteristically the coarsest 
of all) which even shocked frank Madame d’Epinay, 
who felt the opinions “ rather strong to be spoken in 
presence of ladies who respected themselves ; ” while at 
the atheistic remarks of St Lambert, Itousseau angrily 
threatened to leave. “ One hour of conversation,” says 
Madame d’Epinay, “ opens one’s ideas, and gives more 
satisfaction than almost all the books I have ever read.” 1 
It certainly opens one’s eyes. 

Baron d’Holbach, whose materialistic c System of Na- 
ture ’ appeared in 1770, was one of the best of hosts. He 
had a good cook, and excellent wine, and invited the 
most able guests, who uttered freely every dangerous 
opinion round his table, where they complained with 
1 Madame d’Epinay’s Mdmoires, i. 220. 


SOCIETY JX TARTS. 


57 


much freedom of language that they lived in a country 
where there was no freedom of speech. It was reckoned 
a proof of the popularity of the parties of Earon d’Hol- 
hacli — the “ mciitre d’ hotel of philosophers ” — that guests 
who came at 2 o’clock to dinner stayed till 7 or 8 in 
the evening. Here were D’Alembert, pleasant and lively, 
discussing everything in his thin, shrill voice ; and Eay- 
nal, most garrulous and inquisitive of abbes, boring 
friends in his dreadful provincial accent, and seeking 
ideas for his bold ‘ History of the Two Indies,’ which 
in 1772 astonished the world, and formed with the 
Gospels and Eousseau’s writings the favourite reading of 
Marat. Here were Grimm, the able literary correspondent 
for long years of kings, the most French of Germans, 
the most cool and clear-sighted of critics; and Abb6 
Galiani, secretary to the Neapolitan Embassy, dwarf, wit, 
and buffoon, who loved the society of Paris, which he 
fondly called the Cafe de V Europe. Here were Diderot, 
as eager about the details of an iron foundry as about 
the comedies of Terence, vehemently absorbing the con- 
versation, and always gesticulating, as he puts his hands 
excitedly on the knees of whomsoever he favours with 
his talk (even Catherine of Eussia complained that her 
imperial knees got black and blue, and placed the table 
before her for safety) ; and Helvetius, the generous 
wealthy ex-farmer-general, who, though he had joined 
in the liberal encyclopedic movement in Paris, was 
hated by his peasants in the country, who broke his 
windows, ravaged his property, and forced him, when 
engaged in sport, to protect himself by a troop of 
armed gamekeepers. Here was found Eousseau, w T ho, 
though he bluntly had refused to* go to D’Holbach’s 


58 


ROUSSEAU. 


house, saying “You are too rich,” afterwards went, 
and sullenly listened to the sceptical talk he hated, 
and sometimes played over to the party the airs and 
sang with inefficient voice the songs of the “Devin 
du Village,” Besides society at private houses there 
was society at cafes . Rousseau often went to the Cafe 
de la Regence, the resort of philosophers and literary 
men, where D’Alembert and Diderot met almost every 
day, really to talk over their schemes, but ostensibly to 
play chess on that board where are the only “bishops” 
it was then safe to attack, and the only “ kings ” it was 
safe to check. He was to be seen also at the Cafe de 
Procope, opposite the Theatre Fran 9 a. is, where artists, 
actors, and dramatists assembled in the evenings, and 
where, after the theatre was closed, they discussed each 
new work and play. In such society, amongst such 
friends, Rousseau lived in Paris. 

After two months’ imprisonment Diderot got out of 
Vincennes, chiefly through the influence of booksellers 
who were anxious for the progress of the Encyclopedia, 
the first volume of which was ready to appear. This 
work, projected in 1745 by Diderot, and which, with 
the co-operation of D’Alembert, was occupying all his 
time, began in 1751 its famous career, giving the boldest 
views on philosophy, politics, and science, and presenting 
criticism which struck at the root of all the pernicious 
institutions and customs of France. The revolutionary 
spirit of the Encyclopedia, with its keen hatred of the 
privileges of the nobility, the monarchy, and the church, 
appears in every volume : it pervades an article on the 
Taxes, or on Toleration, reveals itself in a definition of 
the word “ Journeyman,” and lurks even in a paper on 


ESSAY ON POLITICAL ECONOMY. 


59 


“Anagrams.” Rousseau, besides contributing an essay 
on music, also wrote in 1753 an article on Political 
Economy, which is full of his intense democratic feeling. 
Here we find no such discussions as we associate with 
this subject, — nothing on rent, or currency, or production. 
Instead of these matters we find the doctrines that the 
law must be the expression of the will of the people ; that 
in order to have good citizens, children should be edu- 
cated together by the State in “ the midst of equality,” 
and taught “ the maxims of the general will ;” that there 
should be no “ privileged ” classes, no extremes of poverty 
and wealth : that the taxes should be imposed, not on 
the poor, but on the rich'; not on the necessities of life, 
but on luxuries ; not on corn and salt, but on livery, 
equipages, mirrors, chandeliers, and mansions; not on 
the industrious classes, but on the idle professions, moun- 
tebanks, singers, and actors. By these means, Rousseau 
argues, the best of sumptuary laws would be formed, 
and there would soon be less inequality of fortune, 
fewer idle ranks in towns, and less desertion of the 
country by the rich. 

“ All the advantages of society, are they not for the power- 
ful and the rich ? All the lucrative posts, are they not filled 
by them alone ? All the privileges, all the exemptions, are 
they not reserved for them ? If a man of position robs his 
creditors or commits other acts of rascality, is he not sure 
of impunity? Are not all the blows he distributes, all 
the violences he commits, the very murders and assassina- 
tions of which he is guilty, hushed up and forgotten in a 
few months? But let this man himself be robbed, and the 
whole police set to work, and woe to the poor innocent man 
whom they suspect. 1 f he has to pass a dangerous place, 
escorts scour the country. If a noise is made at his gate, at 


GO 


ROUSSEAU. 


a word all is silent. If the axle of his coach breaks, every- 
body runs to help him. If a carter crosses his path his 
attendants are ready to knock him down, while fifty decent- 
pedestrians going on business might be crushed rather than 
a lazy rascal be stopped in his coach. All these attentions 
do not cost him a sou ; they are the rights which belong to 
the rich man. How different with the poor! The more 
he needs humanity, the more society refuses it to him. If 
there are corvees to make, recruits required, it is he who has 
the preference. He always bears, besides his own burdens, 
those from which his rich neighbour is exempt. ... I 
think him a lost man if he has the misfortune to have an 
honest heart, a pretty daughter, and a powerful neighbour.” 

Such scenes as he here refers to he had himself 
often witnessed. A man of the people himself, who 
had seen their sufferings and experienced their kind- 
ness, having often shared their scanty food, and been 
sheltered in their wretched huts at nights, he well 
could sympathise with the poor. The peasantry in 
every province were impoverished and oppressed. They 
were wretched and emaciated, living in huts that had 
no windows, clad in rags, eating black bread, and 
drinking as a beverage water poured over husks. Yet 
these were the people who paid taxes from which the 
nobles and rich ecclesiastics were exempt. The taille , 
the gabelle or salt-tax, the tithes, the seigneurial dues, 
the wine-tax, the poll-tax, all crushed them ; more than 
a half of their earnings was wrung from them by tax- 
gatherers ; a quarter of the year was taken in forced 
labour ( corvees ) on the highway, to keep roads smooth 
for the coaches of the rich ; their grain was devoured 
by swarming flocks of pigeons from the dovecots of 
their lord ; their fences and crops were destroyed by 


SOCIAL CONDITION OF FRANCE. 


61 


deer and boars kept for the chase; their sons were 
taken from the fields and sent to the army, where 
they lived in company with the refuse of society, or 
deserted to increase the criminal class. 

At the very time Kousseau wrote his essay there was 
famine in nearly every province of France, as indeed there 
had been constantly throughout the whole century, “ the 
people eating grass like sheep and dying like flies.” Mean- 
while the noblesse lived in ease, hearing with tranquillity 
of riots and outrages, of famishing crowds in the far-off 
provinces, which were becoming more barren, less culti- 
vated than in the middle ages. Some men were warm- 
hearted enough to pity such widespread, deep-seated 
misery, and were cool-headed enough to see to what a 
terrible end it all tended, and what a dreadful retribu- 
tion would overtake society. “ When the people no 
longer fear anything they are everything,” wrote D’Ar- 
genson. He saw that the materials were combustible. “A 
disturbance,” he wrote in 1751, at the time Kousseau was 
thinking the same, — “ a disturbance may give place to a 
revolt, and the revolt to a complete revolution, when real 
tribunes of the people may be elected, and the king and 
his Ministers be despoiled of their excessive power to do 
harm.” While the poor were despoiled the noblesse were 
privileged under this “ spendthrift anarchy ” of Louis 
XV., and while a populace famished, favourites were 
loaded at their expense with pensions and places — 
from royal mistresses and needy aristocrats, who re- 
ceived millions, down to men like that M. Ducrot, 
who, Camille Desmoulins said, “ received a pension 
of 1700 livres for his services as hairdresser to Made- 
moiselle d’ Artois, who died at three years old, before 


62 


ROUSSEAU. 


she had any hair.” It is not wonderful that a nature 
like Rousseau’s should he stirred by all these iniqui- 
ties. His heart was fierce against a selfish aristocracy. 
One day he said to Madame d’Epinay : “ The hope of 
another life makes me endure the atrocities which are 
committed in cold blood by the great, whose happiness is 
not troubled by them, and who, from caprice or for frivol- 
ous amusement, cause the despair and misery of many 
millions of men whom they should render happy. I 
am not of a ferocious nature, but when I see there is no 
justice in this world for these monsters, I please myself 
by thinking there is a hell for them.” 

Rousseau was busy during 1753 denouncing litera- 
ture, and constantly writing, scoffing at the fashion- 
able world, and constantly in society. This year he 
achieved a great success by his operatic piece, the 
“Devin du Village,” which was first played at Fon- 
tainebleau, and for this performance he got 100 louis. 
There were present in the eager theatre the king and 
queen and all their Court, Louis XV. sitting beside 
Madame de Pompadour. The author, with unshaven 
heard, ill-trimmed wig, and poor attire, listened to the 
remarks of spectators round him with inexpressible 
delight ; and as lady-lips murmured, “ This is charming ! ” 
“This is ravishing!” the heart of Jean Jacques heat 
wildly, and he fain would have caught with his lips the 
tears of joy which fell from his eyes. That evening he 
was commanded to appear before the king next day, 
with the implied certainty of gaining a pension. Upon 
this tremors of shyness and fear overcame him at the 
thought; for “ how could he accept a pension without 
forfeiting his boasted independence?” Accordingly he 


THE “DEVIN DU VILLAGE. 


G3 


suddenly disappeared from Court next morning on plea 
of ill-health, and gained the anger of Diderot, and 
general censure for his foolish and churlish conduct. 
“ The Village Sorcerer,” when played in Paris, was ex- 
ceedingly successful ; its bright, fresh, unconventional 
airs caught the popular ear. Madame de Pompadour 
herself played tlie part of Colin at Bellevue, and the 
king, “ with the worst voice in his kingdom,” sang all 
day long — 

“ J’ai perdu mon serviteur, 

J’ai perdu tout mon bonheur ; 

Colin me delaisse.” 

The lively airs delighted society, which was not sorry 
to have a little change even from the operas of 
Eameau and Lulli which had so long charmed them ; 
while, under the sharp teaching of Jean Jacques, the 
orchestra for one** ceased to be noisy. Horace Walpole, 
in Paris, writing in 1765, says: “The French opera 
which I have heard to-night disgusted me as much as 
ever, the more so for being followed by the 1 Devin du 
Village,’ which shows that they can sing without crack- 
ing the drum of one’s ear.” Musical taste, however, has 
its caprices, and a time came when the public tired of the 
once delightful ballad airs. The last time the piece 
was performed was in 1823, when it was hissed; and a 
periwig having been flung on the stage, it was laughed 
and yawned out of fame. With us it lingers still in the 
only too familiar air called “ Rousseau’s Dream,” which 
is an inaccurate reproduction of a pantomime tune in 
the opera. 

Rnusseau was not so successful with his little comedy 
“ Harcisse,” which he had written at Charmettes. It 


64 


ROUSSEAU. 


was played anonymously at the Theatre Frangais, and 
was received indifferently, while he professes to have 
been so weary of it that he could hardly sit out the 
representation. Going across the street to the Cafe de 
Procope,, when it was over, he found others as weary as 
himself discussing it, and he exclaimed, “ The piece is 
a failure, and it deserved to fail. It is by Eousseau of 
Geneva, and I am that Eousseau !” 

He was soon involved in eager controversy. The 
previous year an Italian operatic company had come to 
Paris, and performed the works of Pergolesi and other 
foreign composers. In a short while Parisians were in 
hot discussion as to the relative merits of Italian and 
French music. Society was divided into two hostile par- 
ties, and the rival sets took their station in different parts 
of the Opera-house, one under the queen’s box, the other 
under the king’s, whence they were called le coin de la 
rcine , and le coin du roi. For a long time not a little 
of the operatic music, most of the orchestral perform- 
ances, and the whole style of singing, had struck some 
foreigners as by no means charming ; and we find Gray 
the poet, writing in 1739 from Paris, laughing at “the 
mewing and frightful yellings of the singers,” “ the 
cracked voices trilling divisions of two notes and a half 
accompanied by an orchestra of hum -strums.” At the 
present juncture Grimm issued a witty brochure in 
favour of the Italians ; and now Eousseau, who perhaps 
knew more about Italian music than any other man 
in France, published his scathing “ Letter on French 
Music” on the same side, adding enormously to the 
excitement. Bluntly he sums up : — 
u I believe that I have shown that there is neitner measure 


CONTROVERSY IN MUSIC. 


65 


nor melody in France, because its language is not susceptible 
of it; tliat the French song is a continued braying; that the 
harmony of it is brutal; that the French airs are not airs; 
that the French recitative is not recitative. Whence I con- 
clude that the French have no music, and cannot have any; 
or that, if they have, so much the worse for them.” 

The quarrel between Parliament and clergy was at 
this time at its height ; Parliament had just been exiled, 
the social ferment was general, and everything tended 
towards insurrection, as Rousseau says, yet “ when my 
pamphlet appeared, from that moment every other quarrel 
was forgotten : the perilous state of French music was 
the only thing with which the public was engaged, and 
the insurrection was against myself.” The excitement 
was immense in Parisian society. His letter drew 
forth innumerable replies ; he fully expected to be 
banished ; the indignant orchestra of the opera, which 
resented his drilling of them when rehearsing his “ Devin 
du Village,” burned him in effigy. “ It is not surpris- 
ing,” said Jean Jacques, quietly, “that they should 
now burn me, since they have so long tortured me.” 

Though the controversy left as results an increased 
taste for Italian music, and a softer style of execution of 
the music of France, some years after, Goldoni the dram- 
atist was present one night at the opera in Paris, with its 
beautiful scenery and ballet and its still noisy music, 
and when asked what he thought of it, he could only 
reply, laughing, “ It is paradise for the eyes, and hell 
for the ears.” 


f.c. — XVII. 


E 


66 


CHAPTER IV. 

DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY. 

In this year, 1753, the Academy of Dijon announced as 
the subject of a prize essay, “ What is the Origin of 
Inequality among Men; and is it authorised by Natural 
Law 1 ” and Rousseau was encouraged by his former suc- 
cess to try again. To think over the matter, he went 
for some days to St Germain with Ther&se. The 
weather was beautiful; and wandering in the woods 
for long hours, he thought out his work. There, he 
says, “I sought for and found the image of the primi- 
tive ages, of which I boldly traced the history ; I con- 
founded the miserable falsehoods of men, and comparing 
the artificial man Avith the man of nature, I dared to 
show them, in their pretended improvement, the real 
source of their miseries.” The essay did not gain the 
prize, but, when published in 1754, added to the fame 
of Jean Jacques in society, which were discovering in the 
Genevese music-teacher, copyist, and composer, a master 
of French prose, of striking eloquence and daring inde- 
pendence. The most refined society of Europe read the 
powerful pages, which told them they were hopelessly 
degenerated from the savage state, with as little resent- 



DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY. 


67 


ment and as much pleasure as the English public of our 
day read the sombre pages of Carlyle, which inform 
them, in contemptuous statistics, that they are so many 
millions — “ mostly fools.” As we read the writings of 
Rousseau, so bitter against the rich, the great, the 
learned, and the brilliant, amongst whom he mingled, 
and remember his own inability to join with ease and 
vivacity in their company, we are led almost to suspect 
that b} r his animosity, he was avenging himself on 
society for his incapacity to be social. Would he 
have hated the great so much, if, like Marmontel and 
Voltaire, he had felt at home with them? It would be 
interesting to speculate how much the great revolution- 
ary movement — which owes so much to Rousseau’s 
violent teaching — would have been changed if he had 
had more ease of manner, and more alertness of wit in 
society, in the glittering circles of Paris, which he hated 
chiefly because he feared them. 

In his Discourse on Inequality, Rousseau condemns 
the social state as the source of the corruption of 
mankind, and of all the hateful inequalities of for- 
tune and condition ; and in opposition to the vicious 
state of civilisation, he turns in praise to the innocent 
state of the primitive man. The “ natural state,” as 
described by Rousseau, was not the enlightened “ golden 
age ” of which poets since Hesiod had sung, with melo- 
dious inaccuracy, and which Pope had a few years be- 
fore pictured in his “Essay on Man,” declaring that 
in piety and purity “ the state of nature was the reign 
of God.” On the contrary, the primitive man whom 
he admires is a being without intelligence, religion, or 
language, and with the mere physical desires of a 


68 


ROUSSEAU. 


brute. He pictures him sleeping under trees or in 
dens, learning how to get food and safety by imitating 
the beasts, with no signs save gestures and cries, mat- 
ing with a female as do the wild animals, and, like 
them, “not able to recognise his own offspring,” who 
leave the mother when old enough to do without her. 
In fact, at a lower state even than what anthropologists 
call the “ stone age,” Rousseau sees the true golden age, 
because then, he maintains, men were more healthy, 
more free and innocent, than the civilised man. He even 
suggests “that the man should be honoured who first 
taught the Oroonoko Indians the use of bandages, which 
they apply to the temples of their children, and which 
secures them at least some degree of their imbecility and 
original happiness.” Rousseau’s perverse doctrine is a 
curious parody of theological dogma. Equally with his 
countryman Calvin, he sees in the depravity of man the 
result of a “ fall ” from primitive innocence ; but while 
the theologian looked on man in an original state as en- 
dowed with intelligence, and made in the image of God, 
the theorist looks back with regret on man in an original 
state as endowed with stupidity, and made in the image 
of a brute. 

By long stages, which Rousseau details with much 
minuteness and great ingenuity, but by pure conjecture, 
language was formed, industries grew, family life sprang 
up, and those processes took place which “made man 
bad by making him social.” Chief of these is the insti- 
tution of property — dire source of misery and inequality. 
The argument here is based on the passage in Pascal’s 
- ‘ Thoughts : ’ “ ‘ This dog is mine,’ said these poor 
children; ‘this is my place in the sun.’ Here is the 


DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY. 


69 


beginning and image of the usurpation of the whole 
earth.” In a similar way Rousseau argues, — forgetting, 
however, that the simple notion of property must have 
been formed by the first child, instead of lying dormant 
for long ages, as he supposes : “ The first who, having 
enclosed a piece of ground, began to think of saying, 
‘ This is mine,’ and found people simple enough to 
believe him, was the true founder of society. What 
crimes, what wars and murders, what miseries and hor- 
rors would have been spared the human race by him 
who, seizing the stakes and filling up the ditch, had 
cried to his fellows, ‘Beware of listening to this im- 
postor ; you are lost if you forget that the fruits are for 
all, and the earth belongs to none.’ ” 

The happiest stage of all, in the opinion of Rousseau, 
is that half-way between the indolence of the first ages 
and the petulant activity of modern selfishness, — that 
period when men in savage life had settled abodes, were 
content with their mud huts, their stone hatchets, their 
dress of wild beasts’ skins, and ornaments of feathers and 
shells; and when they “restricted themselves to work 
which each could do for himself.” The example of the 
modern savages, to whom he attributes qualities of hu- 
manity and sincerity lacking in society, confirms him 
in the notion that this was the “true youth of the 
world,” and that all progress since has led to “ the 
perfection of the man and the decrepitude of the race.” 
In lauding thus the condition of the savage, it must 
be remembered he only followed the practice of his 
age, which idealised the barbarian, and endowed him 
with all imaginary virtues and simplicity. Poets and 
dramatists were constantly putting in the mouths of 


70 


ROUSSEAU. 


Peruvians and Indians the noblest sentiments and the 
finest rhetoric. “ Return to nature and the manners of 
Otaheite ” is the toast proposed by St Lambert amidst 
applause at a supper party ; and theorists forgot that 
their “ noble savage ” was as unlike the bloodthirsty 
Dahoman and the filthy Hottentot as Watteau’s dainty 
and bedimpled shepherdesses were unlike the rustic 
reality. We are told by the essayist how the mo- 
ment one man had need of another, equality disap- 
peared ; how agriculture and working of metals were 
arts which ruined mankind ; how the institution of 
property awakened knavery, jealousy, ambition, and 
strife, and caused the usurpations of the rich, and 
the thefts of the poor, and the wild passions of all. 
By precarious titles only could any possessions be held 
by the rich, or even by the industrious. They might 
say, “ This is mine, for I built this wall ; I gained this 
land by my own labour.” “ Who marked out the lines 1 ” 
it may be replied; “and on what ground do you de- 
mand to be paid the price of labour which was never 
imposed upon you 1 ? Do you not know that thousands 
of your brothers perish or suffer from want of that of 
which you have too much, and that there is necessary a 
distinct consent of the whole race before you can appro- 
priate any that is beyond your share of the common 
substance ] ” 

“ Pressed by necessity, the rich, to defend themselves, con- 
ceived the most ingenious plan which ever entered the human 
mind — that of employing on their own behalf the very forces 
which attacked them, and of turning their enemies into de- 
fenders. . . . ‘Unite with us,’ they said to the poor, ‘to 
secure the weak from oppression, to restrain the ambitious, 


DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY. 


71 


to assure to each the possession that belongs to him. . . . 
In a word, instead of turning our strength against each 
other, let us place ourselves together, all under one supreme 
power which governs us according to wise laws, which 
defends all members of the association, repels common 
enemies, and preserves us in everlasting concord.’ All hasten 
under the yoke in order to secure their freedom. . . . 

Such was the origin of society and of laws, which, for the 
benefit of a few ambitious men, subjected henceforth all 
mankind to labour, to servitude and misery.” 

We have here the idea which lies at the root of com- 
munism ; the principle which is condensed in the sen- 
tence of Brissot : “La ’propriety exclusive est un vol 
dans la nature,” which was repeated by Proudhon in his 
favourite maxim — “property is theft.” With eloquent 
theorising, which takes with the writer the place of 
historical knowledge, Rousseau traces the supposed order 
in which, from democracy to despotism, forms of gov- 
ernment change, as men become more enslaved, as so- 
ciety becomes more insincere, selfish, and corrupt, until 
despotism rears its hideous head, devouring all that is 
good, and destined to overthrow finally all laws and 
people. With these significant words the Discourse 
ends : “ It is manifestly contrary to the law of nature, 
however defined, that a child should command an old 
man ; that an imbecile should lead a wise man ; that a 
handful of people should abound with superfluities, while 
a famishing multitude is without even necessities.” 

These final words were repeated with terrible intensity 
of purpose forty years later in the revolutionary clubs of 
Paris, and in the publications which daily stirred the 
hates and hopes of the mob; they ring out again in 
the fierce incitements of Marat, in 1792, to the hungry 


72 


ROUSSEAU. 


crowds : “ The heir to the throne has no right to dine 
when you lack bread. Assemble yourselves in troops, 
present yourselves at the National Assembly, and demand 
that at once they assign subsistence on the national goods. 
If they refuse, unite in an army, divide the lands and 
wealth of the wretches who have buried their gold to 
reduce you by famine to submit to the yoke.” Although 
Morelly, in the year after Rousseau wrote, in his ‘ Code 
of Nature/ argued also that vices spring from private 
property, and the Abb4 de Mably years later also main- 
tained that landed property was the source of unequal 
fortunes and of the vices of the rich and the misery of 
the poor, it was the brilliant rhetoric of Rousseau, and 
not the argument of these more consistent socialist 
writers, which caught the attention of the age. 

Though the author spoke so wildly in his Discourse, 
he proved himself able to speak measuredly in argument 
with opponents; and in the controversy roused by his 
treatise he met assailants with great adroitness. When 
it was argued against him that a social state was really the 
natural state, being the issue of man’s constitution, and 
consequently the result of the laws of God, he replied 1 
that disease is natural also, and therefore equally in ac- 
cordance with divine will ; but you do not blame a man 
who objects to disease, and tries to arrest decay. “ Do not 
forget that society is natural to mankind as decrepitude 
is to man ; that arts, laws, and governments are neces- 
sary to races as crutches to the old ; and the state of 
society being the extreme term at which men can arrive 
either sooner or later, it is not useless to show them the 
danger of going too quickly, and the miseries of a condi- 
1 Lettre k Philopolis (Bonnet). 


VISIT TO GENEVA. 


73 


tion which they mistake for perfection.” But nowhere 
in his writings does he show how this tide of inequality 
can he stemmed; and he himself could evince no return 
to primitive simplicity except the unfortunate point of 
“ not being able to recognise his own children.” Amidst 
the controversy and commotion stirred by his Discourse, 
Rousseau received a letter of characteristic compliment 
from Voltaire in return for a copy of the work. “No 
one,” he wrote, “ has ever employed so much intellect in 
trying to make us beasts. It makes one long to walk 
on four paws when one reads your book. However, as 
I have for sixty years lost the habit of doing so, un- 
fortunately it is impossible to learn again. I leave 
that pleasure for others more worthy of it than you 
or I.” 

In June 1754 Rousseau set out for Geneva with 
Therkse, glad, he says, to be rid for a little while of the 
uncongenial atmosphere of Paris. He found so little 
openness of heart and frankness in the intercourse even 
of his friends, that he sighed after an abode in the 
country. “ The cabals of men of letters, the want of can- 
dour in their books, and the air of importance they gave 
themselves in the world, were odious to me.” On his 
way to Geneva, he went out of his course to see again 
Madame de Warens. Thirteen years had gone since last 
he had met her, and now he found her the mere wreck 
of her former self — miserable, old, poor, degraded. “ I 
saw her,” Jean Jacques exclaims, — “good God ! in what 
debasement ! What remained of her former virtue 1 Was 
this the same Madame de Warens, once so brilliant, to 
whom the Cure Ponteverre had given me recommen- 
dations? My heart was broken.” He gave his old 


74 


ROUSSEAU. 


maman , so altered, so wretched, all the little money 
he could conveniently spare, and pressed her to join 
her lot with his and Therese’s. Only once more did 
he see her again. She set off to visit him in Geneva, 
and he saw her at Grangecanal — she being unable 
to complete her journey from want of means, which 
Jean Jacques, however, did something to supply. A 
little diamond ring was the only jewel the poor 
creature had left, and this she took from her finger 
to put on Therese’s, who, however, instantly returned 
it, while she kissed with tears the generous old hand. 
Eight years after, she died, neglected and miserable, and 
was buried in the burying -ground of Lemens, above 
Chambery, on July 30, 1762, — having, according to the 
Register of the Parish Church of St Pierre de Lemens, 
“died yesterday at ten o’clock, like a good Christian, 
and fortified by the last sacraments, aged about sixty- 
three.” 1 

In Geneva, Rousseau was welcomed with enthusiasm 
by the citizens, who hailed the return of the fellow- 
townsman who had left it as a vagabond apprentice 
at the age of sixteen, and returned as a world-famed 
writer at the age of forty-two. They heaped such 
honour as they could upon him, and he soon felt re- 
gret that his being a Roman Catholic by profession 
lost him his right of being a citizen of a town which 
he honoured as a republican, and loved as a patriot. 
He resolved to re-enter the Protestant faith, and thus 
become again a citizen. It was no difficult moral feat 
this conversion. He never had believed in the Catholic 
Church, which he had entered through policy; and al- 
1 Arthur Young’s Travels, p. 258. 


CITIZEN OF GENEVA. 


75 


though he did not hold the tenets of the Calvinistic 
faith, he held “ that the Gospel being the same for all 
Christians, and the ground o^dogma being different only 
where it tries to explain what cannot be understood, it 
belongs to each sovereign to fix both the worship and 
this unintelligible dogma, and that it is the duty of each 
citizen to follow the worship and admit the doctrine pre- 
scribed by law.” He therefore put himself under the 
instruction of the pastor of the parish where he lived, 
made profession of the Protestant faith, received the 
Communion, and was now privileged to call himself by 
that title of “citizen of Geneva” of which he was so 
proud, which he inscribed on all his works, and to- 
which his writings gave such significance. Charmed by 
the enthusiasm of his reception, he resolved to settle 
in Geneva, and leave for ever the cabals and artifices 
of Parisian society. Meantime, after a visit of four 
months, he returned to Paris, and there busied him- 
self with the proof-sheets of the ‘Discourse on the 
Inequality of Mankind,’ which, to avoid the censors of 
the French press, he got printed in Holland. Soon his 
resolution to settle ill Geneva died out. He thought 
his Discourse, which he dedicated to his Eepublic of 
Geneva, was coldly received, and had made him enemies; 
and further, he hated being near Voltaire, who was, he 
felt, corrupting the citizens by his insidious ways and 
vicious teaching, while living at Les Delices, at the very 
gate of Geneva. 

Whatever perplexity he may have felt, and whatever 
may have been the real reasons of his not returning to 
Geneva, the strongest surely was the prospect of a home 
in the country offered to him, which would take him 


76 


ROUSSEAU. 


away from the crowd, the coteries of Paris, and all the 
artificial manners and sceptical babble of its society. 
Before he went to Geneva, he had been staying with 
Madame d’Epinay at Chevrette; and one day as they 
walked together they came to a part of the park bordering 
the forest of Montmorency, where there was a house, all 
out of repair, surrounded by fruit-trees. It was solitary, 
the situation was pretty, and Rousseau exclaimed, “ Ah, 
madame, what a delightful abode ! Here is a refuge 
made for me.” Nothing more was said, but on his 
return from Geneva he was again at Chevrette, and, as 
he with his friend walked to the same spot, he was 
astonished to see the broken - down cottage now a 
pretty, neatly furnished house. Madame d’Epinay said 
to him, “My bear, here is your refuge. It is you 
who have chosen it, and it is friendship which offers 
it to you.” Rousseau was deeply touched at such 
kindness, and bathed her hand in tears, and after 
some delay, and not too graciously, he accepted the 
offer . 1 He longed to live in the quiet country, for, as 
he says — 

“ I was so weary of drawing - rooms, of fountains, of 
bowers, of flower-beds, and of the still more tiresome people 
who showed them to me; and was so overwhelmed with 
pamphlets, harpsichords, cards (tri), dull witticisms, insipid 
airs, petty story-tellers, and great suppers, that when I spied 
a poor simple hawthorn thicket, a hedge, a farmstead, a 
meadow ; when passing through a hamlet I caught the 
smell of a good chevril omelette ; when I heard in the 


1 Madame d'Epinay’s version of the story is different, though 
Rousseau’s more romantic account represents Madame d’Epinay’s 
kindness in even a more favourable manner than her own. 


TOWN AND COUNTRY WAYS. 


77 


distance the rustic refrain of the song of shepherds, — I sent 
to the devil all the rouge, furbelows, and perfumery, and 
regretting a plain dinner and common wine, I would gladly 
have pommelled both Mons. the cook and Mons. the mas- 
ter who made me dine when I sup, and sup when I go 
to bed.” 




78 


CHAPTEE Y. 

THE HERMITAGE. 

On the 9th of April 1756, Rousseau departed with im 
patience for his new home. Madame d’Epinay brought 
Jean Jacques, Therese, and old Madame le Vasseur in 
her coach ; while a farmer carted their simple furniture. 
When they came to the end of the road, the old 
woman, nearly seventy, heavy and unable to walk, was 
carried along the path through the forest in a chair, 
weeping with pleasure ; while Jean Jacques walked 
silently, with his head down, as if he had nothing to 
do with the party. Now, however, that he was at the 
Hermitage, he was at peace. 

“ Although the weather was cold, and even snow still lay 
on the ground, the earth began to spring, violets and prim- 
roses had appeared, the buds had begun to shoot, and the 
very night of my arrival was marked by the first song of the 
nightingale, which made itself heard almost under my win- 
dow, in a wood that touched the house. After a light sleep, 
forgetting, when I awoke, that I was transplanted, I still 
thought myself in the Rue de Grenelle, when suddenly this 
singing made me start, and I exclaimed in my transport, ‘At 
last my wishes are fulfilled ! * . . . There was not a path, 
a copse, a corner in the neighbourhood of my house, that I 



LIFE AT THE HERMITAGE. 


79 


did not visit next day. The more I examined this charming 
retreat, the more I felt it made for me. This solitary rather 
than wild spot carried me in fancy to the end of the world. 
It had touching beauties which are but seldom found near 
cities; and never, if suddenly transported here, could any 
one have imagined himself only four leagues from Paris.” 1 

His transports calmed, he soon set to work, for all he 
had was the sum of 2000 francs produced by his writings. 
The mornings he spent in copying music, in the afternoon 
walking in the forest of Montmorency, always carry- 
ing paper and pencil, for he could only think when 
he walked, and he wrote best in the open air. “ The 
moment I stop,” he says, “ I cease to think, and as soon 
as I am in motion again my head resumes its work.” 
He composed with difficulty, and sustained thought was 
an agony to him ; and as ideas or phrases occurred to 
him he would jot them down, and before they were used 
they were altered painfully again and again. He was 
busy with several projects. A great work on * Political 
Institutions/ conceived in Venice, and which, although 
he had been occupied irregularly for six years by the 
subject, he was destined never to finish : a work on 
‘ Sensitive Morality/ intended to show how physical cir- 
cumstances, climate, colours, and food, act on the body, 
and ultimately on the mind; and another on ‘Educa- 
tion/ out of which £ Emile ’ grew, — took up his thoughts 
in his lonely walks. Besides all this, he had to toil over 
an abstract of the Abbe de St Pierre’s works, at the in- 
stigation of Madame Dupin ; and as he had manuscripts 
intrusted to him, he did not like to give up the task, 
though he found it intolerable. Merely to read the pro- 

i Confessions, B. ix. 


80 


KOUSSEAU. 


ductions of the clever and copious Abbe was bad enough, 
but to arrange and digest twenty-three diffuse, wearisome 
volumes, full of crude suggestions, from a “ Project to 
render Roads passable in Winter,” to a “Project to 
make Dukes and Peers useful,” or a “ Project to prevent 
Mendicancy,”* was too much ; and Rousseau must have 
rejoiced when he got, in 1761, the Abbe’s ‘Perpetual 
Peace ’ safely published, and enabled the world again to 
read this impossible proposition to have a European Diet 
to make peace over all the world. 

In the Hermitage time passed quietly with Rousseau, 
who thought out his books when the weather was fine, 
and wrote at his ‘ Dictionary of Music,’ of copied, 
when it was raining. In summer, too, he saw much of 
Madame d’Epinay when she was at Chevrette. He 
was obliged to be at her summons, for she liked to see 
much of “ her bear,” as she called him ; and much he 
grumbled under the attentions of his kindly but in- 
judicious friend, who did not know how to manage a 
man who was angry at not being left alone, and yet 
complained that his friends never came to see him. 
Madame d’Epinay is described with no flattering pen 
by Rousseau : but we can see her, from Diderot’s and 
her own descriptions, as little, elegant, and rather 
pretty, with long black curls flowing on her neck ; with 
a bright youthful face, black eyes full of piquancy, 
and a manner full of grace and vivacity ; a woman with 
a kindly heart, a little folly, and a good deal of wit, 
who, because she liked being at her country-house for a 
few months surrounded by friends who reminded her of 
town, always believed she had a vocation for retirement. 
As for M. d’Epinay, who appeared seldom, he was an 


MADAME D’EPINAY. 


81 


immoral man of the world, who let his wife do as she 
pleased so long as he was allowed to do as he liked, 
and is compactly described by Diderot as a man “ who 
had spent 2,000,000 without saying one good thing or 
doing one good act.” Rousseau, in his new position, 
did not care to he constantly at the call of his hostess, 
and did not feel at ease with her friends, for he disliked 
feeling himself a cipher in the company of agile talkers 
who came with Madame d’Epinay to Chevrette in sum- 
mer. We may also suppose he did not enjoy the sub- 
ordinate position of friend where Baron Grimm was 
favoured as a lover. “ I cannot endure lukewarmness,” 
he once wrote to Madame de Latour; “and I would 
rather be hated to the utmost by a thousand and loved 
to the same degree by one. Whosoever is not passion- 
ately devoted to me, is not worthy of me.” Better than 
visiting at the chateau, he liked writing by his open win- 
dow to the singing of the birds, only dreading the im- 
portunate visitors who disturbed his fancies and wasted 
his time. Starting with his dog, he every day set off 
to spend hours and hours in the woods, indulging 
in the sweet day-dreams which took him away from 
a poor and troublesome reality. Seeing nobody in 
existence worth caring for, he entered there into an 
ideal world, peopled with visionary friends, tender 
and true. 

“ I became so fond of soaring in the empyrean, in the 
midst of the charming objects with which I was surrounded, 
that I there passed hours and days heedless of time ; and 
losing the remembrance of all other things, I had scarcely 
eaten a morsel in haste before I was impatient to escape 
and run to regain my groves. When, ready to depart lor 
the enchanted w'orld, I saw wretched mortals arrive, who 

F.C. — XVII. F 


82 


llOUSSKAU. 


came to detain me on earth, I could neither conceal nor 
moderate my vexation ; and, no longer master of myself, I 
gave them so uncivil a reception that it might be called 
brutal.” 1 

Whenever he got safe out of the house he was happy. 

“ I went then with more tranquil step to some wild part 
of the forest, — some desert place where nothing showing the 
hand of man spoke of servitude and domination, — some 
shelter where I could believe myself the first to enter, and 
where no importunate third came to interpose between 
nature and myself. It was then that it seemed to unfold to 
my eyes an ever-new magnificence. The gold of the broom 
and the purple of the heather struck my eyes with a splen- 
dour that touched my heart ; the majesty of the trees which 
covered me with their shade, the delicacy of the shrubs 
which surrounded me, the astonishing variety of the grasses 
and flowers which I crushed under my feet, kept my mind 
in a constant alternation of observation and admiration, and 
sometimes made me repeat to myself, ‘No; Solomon in all 
his glorv was not arrayed like one of these . 5 My imagi- 
nation did not leave long deserted a land so adorned. I 
soon peopled it with beings according to my heart, and, 
chasing far off opinion, prejudices, all factitious passions, I 
transported into the asylums of nature men worthy to in- 
habit them. I formed a charming society, of which I did not 
feel myself unworthy ; I made for myself a golden age of 
fancy, and filled these lovely days with all the scenes of my 
life which left me sweet memories, and all those which my 
heart could yet desire. ... So rolled on, in a continual 
delirium, the most charming days that any human being 
ever passed ; and when the setting sun made me think of retir- 
ing, astonished by the swiftness of time, I believed I had not 
enough employed my day. I thought of being able to enjoy 
yet more, and, to recover lost time, I said to myself, ‘ I shall 
come back to-morrow . 5 55 2 


1 Confessions, B. ix. 


2 Third Letter to Malesherbes. 


WRITES THE ‘NEW HELOiSE.’ 


83 


In this state of exaltation the story of the ‘Hew Heloiise 9 
formed itself in his mind. He imagined two female 
friends, — one brown, the other fair ; one lively, and the 
other languishing. He imagined, further, a lover with 
virtues and faults like his own ; he placed the scene 
near Yevay, full of the beauties of nature which had 
filled his heart years ago. He wrote the letters of which 
the novel is composed in an ecstasy of imagination, and 
with inexpressible delight, and in the first winter he 
finished the first two parts of his romance. He got gilt 
paper to receive a fair copy of them, azure and silver 
powder to dry the ink, and blue ribbon to bind the 
sheets together, finding nothing dainty enough, he says, 
for the charming girls, on whom he doted like another 
Pygmalion. In the long evenings by the fireside, Jean 
Jacques, with quivering voice, would read aloud to 
Therese and her mother, while his cat purred, and his 
dog “ Due ” snored in cosy duet beside him. Therese, 
bewildered by the splendid rhapsodies and amorous 
dialectics of St Preux and Julie, would sigh sympa- 
thetically, though she said nothing ; while the old 
woman, half dozing in her chair, and not understanding 
one word, always carefully remarked, when Jean Jacques 
paused, “ Monsieur, that is very fine.” The whole scene 
is admirable comedy. Hever had an author such a 
curiously uncongenial audience as Rousseau, in his dull 
consort and her sordid mother, for those thrilling pages 
which were soon to touch the hearts of all society. 

When in the excitement of composition, he lived 
in an amorous dreandand, while an entrancing reality 
came to give substance to his shadowy loves. He had 
met Madame d’Houdetot, a sister of M. d’Epinay, once 


84 


KOUSSEAU. 


or twice. In the previous year she had once appeared 
at the Hermitage, and then departed like a sweet vision. 
Again she came one day in 1757 on horseback, dressed 
in man’s clothes, and from that hour Rousseau’s peace of 
mind was gone, and he was in love, he says, for the first 
time in his life : — 

“The Comtesse d’Houdetot was nearly thirty years old 
[she was really twenty-seven], and not handsome ; her face 
was marked with smallpox, her complexion lacked delicacy; 
she was short-sighted, and her eyes were rather round ; hut 
she had a youthful air notwithstanding, and her expression, 
at once lively and gentle, was caressing ; she had a forest of 
long black hair in natural curls, which hung down to the 
waist. Her figure was slight, and she had in all her move- 
ments a mingled awkwardness and grace. Her wit was 
natural and pleasing; gaiety, thoughtlessness, and naivett 
were all happily blended.” 

Such was the object on whom Jean Jacques centred 
all his heart. Every one agreed with him in liking 
Madame d’Houdetot, her winning ways, her kindly, 
frank nature, her sweetness of expression, which lighted 
up a rather sallow face, and which beamed in her eyes, 
which, it must be confessed, squinted even in these 
early days. Her best friends could not say she was 
beautiful ; her worst friends — she had no enemies — did 
not deny she was charming. The Comtesse had been 
married against her will to a man for whom she never 
cared, and consoled herself by loving the Marquis de St 
Lambert, with all the fidelity which women in that age 
showed to their lovers instead of to their husbands. St 
Lambert was an officer in the Lorraine Guards ; he was 
handsome, a wit, and a “philosopher,” and afterwards 
a poet, who had the eminent distinction of supplanting 


MADAME D’HOUDETOT. 


85 


Yoltaire in the exacting affections of Madame du Cha- 
telet, and who had now forestalled Rousseau in the open 
heart of Madame d’Houdetot. Both her husband and 
her lover were now engaged in the war in Germany, 
while she was living alone at Eaubonne, a few miles 
from the Hermitage. 

Before this time Jean Jacques “had been intoxicated 
with love without an object.” This intoxication fixed 
itself on her, in whom he saw all the perfections with 
which he had gifted the Julie of his imagination. He 
trembled as he spoke to her, he sighed as he thought of 
her ; he was in an ecstasy when she was near, in an agony 
when she was away. He placed in niches of ' the trees 
those impassioned letters which he wrote so well, and 
which he himself admired so much. Never was a youth 
more madly in love than this solitary of forty -five. 
During all this Madame d’Houdetot never forgot her 
love for St Lambert, and when they met and wandered 
through the woods, or sat by the waterfall in the moon- 
light, while Jean Jacques showed his love for her, she 
gently restrained him, and talked of St Lambert, as 
they sat hand in hand, murmuring the sweetest folly. 

“ One evening, after having supped together [at Eaubonne], 
we went to walk in the garden by the clear moonlight. At 
the foot of the garden was a considerable copse, by which 
we passed to a pretty grove ornamented with a cascade of 
which 1 had given her the idea, and which she carried out. 
Immortal memory of innocence and joy ! It was in this 
grove that, seated with her upon a seat of turf, under an 
acacia covered with flowers, I found, to render the emotions 
of my heart, a language truly worthy of them. This was 
the first and the only time of my life ; but I was sub- 
lime, if one can so call everything agreeable and seductive 


86 


KOUSSEAU. 


which the most tender and most ardent love can inspire 
in the heart of man. What intoxicating tears did I shed 
upon her knees ; how many did I make her shed in spite of 
herself ! At last, in an involuntary transport, she exclaimed, 
‘ No ! never was man so lovable, and never did lover love 
like you. But your friend St Lambert hears us, and my 
heart cannot love twice.’ ” 

In all these interviews, and in all these amorous pas- 
sages, while Kousseau thought her delightful, Madame 
d’Houdetot thought he was mad — at any rate so she told 
her lover. “His madness must be very great,” re- 
marked St Lambert, “ if she can see it.” These dreams 
and transports were at last interrupted. One day the 
recluse found the Countess sad, after a visit to Paris, 
for St Lambert had been told of what was going on, 
and the delightful dalliance and rapturous correspond- 
ence must cease. Some time afterwards the letters of 
Madame d’Houdetot were at her request returned, but 
when Jean Jacques asked his own back, she replied, to 
his discomfiture and incredulity, that they were burned. 
“ No ! ” he writes to the world ; “ such letters as mine 
were to her, are never flung into the fire. Those of £ Julie ’ 
have been found ardent ; heavens ! what would have 
been said of these? No, no ; she who can inspire such 
a passion, will never have the courage to burn the proof 
of it. If these letters are not yet destroyed, and should 
they ever be made public, the world will see how I have 
loved.” Yet burned they really were. Forty years 
afterwards a friend sat in the same famous grove with 
Madame d’Houdetot, then an ugly old lady, with a dread- 
ful squint, and a kindly, sweet expression, and St 
Lambert then an irritable old gentleman — they lived 


WINTER IN THE COUNTRY. 


87 


together till death — and they talked of the now world- 
famed scene of long ago, and the letters of which 
Rousseau was so proud. The Countess said she had 
really burned all except four, which she had sent to 
St Lambert. Turning to him, the friend asked after 
their fate. “Burned too,” replied the superannuated 
philosopher, with a smile and a grimace. Thus ended 
the old romance in the dullest of commonplace. 

Rousseau was soon torn by a passion less tender and 
more sordid, and he began to see enemies in his best 
friends. When he had, in 1756, resolved to stay in the 
country, the philosophers in Paris laughed at his resolu- 
tion. What in the eyes of eighteenth-century society 
could be more dreary, more wretched than the country, 
with no salon s to enter, no brilliant talkers to meet, no 
scandal to hear, — where there were only dull woods to 
walk in when the weather was fine, and only dripping 
trees to gaze wistfully on when tbe days were wet 1 ? 
The dust of the Palais Royal was better than all the 
verdure of Montmorency. Friends knowing his morose 
nature, proclaimed that if Rousseau did not prove he 
was mad already by going there, he certainly would 
become mad if he stayed there. When Grimm heard 
of Madame d’Epinay’s offer, he wrote: “You render 
Rousseau a very bad service in giving him the resi- 
dence of the Hermitage, but you render yourself one 
very much worse. Solitude will end by blackening his 
imagination ; he will think all his friends unjust, un- 
grateful, and you first of all, if you refuse to do as be 
orders.” Never was prophecy more wretchedly true. 
When, further, winter came with its dreary short days, 
its frost and snow, and yet Rousseau resolved to stay in 


88 


ROUSSEAU. 


the country, Diderot, in his impulsive and vehement 
way, urged his return to Paris, and depicted in awful 
terms old Le Vasseur “ at the age of eighty,” stretched 
on the bed of death, alone, without help in the desert 
country, and spoke to Eousseau as if he were an “ assas- 
sin.” Naturally the solitary was infuriated, and the 
dispute became tierce between these two great men, who 
wrote like geniuses and quarrelled like children, and 
who were never so excited as when they debated some 
paltry affair like this with splendid vituperation. As for 
Diderot, he is always extreme in his words and acts. 
“ He is too hot an oven,” said Yoltaire ; “ everything 
baked in it gets burned.” It shows the littleness of 
great folks, when we find that such contemptible 
squabbles created the deepest interest in every let- 
tered and fashionable circle in Paris, and were the 
keen subject of talk in every coterie. “ Mon Dien!” 
exclaimed the haughty Due. de Castries, “everywhere 
I go I hear nothing spoken of but this Rousseau and 
this Diderot. Can you conceive it 1 ? persons of no 
birth, persons who have not a sou, who live in a third 
storey ! ” 

Amidst these absurd but most bitter quarrels Madame 
d’Epinay was fast losing faith in her hermit : she began 
to suspect that Grimm’s warning after all was wise, — that 
Rousseau, notwithstanding all his elevated sentiments, 
was false ; that, in fact, he was “ a moral dwarf mounted 
on stilts.” One day he said to her, “ Know, madame, 
once for all, that I am vicious, that I was born so, and 
that you cannot conceive with what difficulty I do 
good, and how little it costs me to do evil. You laugh ! 
To prove that I speak the truth, know that I cannot 


QUARRELS WITH HIS FRIENDS. 


89 


prevent myself hating those who have done me a kind- 
ness.” 1 

One day in the summer of 1757 Rousseau was told 
that Madame d’Epinay was so ill that it was desirable 
that she should go to Geneva, where she would he under 
the care of Tronchin, the famous physician. Diderot 
•wrote to him in his impassioned way that it was his duty 
to accompany her, as she went in the winter ill and lonely 
to a strange country, and it was but fitting that he should 
requite in this way all the kindness he had received. 
Rousseau was in a fury, and, it must be owned, he had 
some reason to complain of his too officious friends. 
He was indignant at being reminded of his duties, for, 
as he once said to Duclos, “ I cannot endure people to 
whom I am under obligations.” He made a furious 
reply, and wrote also to Grimm justifying his conduct 
in declining to go, and denying any obligation whatever. 
“ I have learned for two years in her house unremitting 
subjection, with the finest discourses on liberty ; served 
by twenty servants, and cleaning my own shoes every 
morning ; loaded with indigestions, and sighing unceas- 
ingly for my wooden bowl. . . . Compare my benefits 
from madame with my country sacrificed, and two years 
of slavery, and tell me whether it is she or I who is 
most obliged to the other 1” Upon this came a scathing 
answer from Grimm, jealous for his mistress, whose ac- 
quaintance he had first made through Jean Jacques, re- 
minding him of the daily marks of tender and generous 
friendship the lady had shown him through the course of 
two years. The letter, written, Rousseau said, with “ in- 
fernal hate,” closed for ever the steady intercourse of 
1 Memoires de Mad. d’Epinay, iii. 51. 


90 


EOUSSEAU. 


years between these two uncongenial friends : “ I shall 
never see you more, and shall think myself happy if I 
can banish from my mind the memory of your conduct.” 
Thus, one by one, Rousseau’s friends dropped off, and 
he sorrowfully felt that he must leave the Hermitage, 
associated with so much love and bate, and retire to 
some remote retreat “ unknown to all those barbarous 
tyrants who are called friends.” He, however, wrote 
to Madame d’Epinay, saying that he had been advised 
by friends not to leave until spring, and received the 
cutting reply: “Since you are determined to quit the 
Hermitage, and are persuaded that you ought to do 
so, I am astonished your friends have prevailed upon 
you to stay there. For my part I never consult mine 
upon my duty.” After this Rousseau had no alternative 
but to leave. 

In less than a week after, his goods were carted 
through the snow of December to Montlouis at Mont- 
morency, where a friend had placed at his service a 
dilapidated house. Old Madame le Yasseur was sent 
off with such chattels as belonged to her; and taking 
some which certainly did not, she went to Paris, where 
Rousseau, glad to get rid of so unwholesome a com- 
panion, promised to provide for her wants. 

The only reason for dwelling so much on these 
wretched quarrels is that they hung like a cloud on 
Rousseau’s own mind, form so important a part of his 
life, and are the episodes on which his contemporaries 
based that opinion of his character which they have 
transmitted to us. 


91 


CHAPTER VI 

MONTMORENCY. 

Rousseau was now settled at Montlouis, feeling himself 
aloof from all his former friends, — or rather that his 
friends had changed to enemies. Grimm, Diderot, D’Hol- 
bach, he was certain were spreading evil stories about him, 
blackening his character, and turning his lonely life into 
malicious ridicule. In his agony of mind he sought to 
divert his thoughts by writing a reply to an article on 
Geneva by D’Alembert, in the Encyclopedia. In this 
article the author, to please Voltaire, advocated the 
establishment of a theatre in the city from which by 
clerical influence it had been excluded. Voltaire, at his 
residence at Les Delices, near Geneva, had built a theatre 
for the production of his own tragedies. He often in- 
vited Genevese citizens to see them, taking a malicious 
delight in giving to the “ children of Calvin ” these for- 
bidden pleasures. This new advocacy of a theatre called 
forth the indignation of Rousseau, playwright though he 
himself was, and he wrote a reply denouncing its intro- 
duction into a little uncorrupted town of 24,000 inhabi- 
tants, where it would introduce luxury and idleness, 
while Paris, with its population of 600,000, had only 


92 


ROUSSEAU. 


four theatres. With perverse force, eloquence, and 
ingenuity, he argued against the theatre ; for although 
his arguments are aimed against theatrical performances 
only in Geneva, they really condemn the stage alto- 
gether. In the course of this Letter he maintains 
that the theatre does not remove the had feelings of 
society, but flatters them and intensifies them ; be- 
cause it shows vice triumphant, and makes the young 
superior to the old, who in tragedies are represented as 
tyrants, and in comedies as dotards. He even justifies 
the social contempt with which actors were regarded in 
nis day, and has not a word to say against those cruel 
ecclesiastical rules against which D’Alembert protested, 
which denied the worthiest actor or actress the right of 
decent burial. “ What is the profession of an actor 1 A 
trade by which he exhibits himself for money, submits 
himself to ignominy and affronts which one buys the 
right of offering him, and puts publicly his person for 
sale. What is then, in reality, the spirit which an actor 
receives from his condition? a mixture of baseness, 
falsity, absurd pride, and unworthy degradation, which 
fits him for every character except the noblest, — that of 
a man, — which he abandons.” The work, which is full 
of digressions, containing acute literary criticisms and 
eloquent social strictures, all written with admirable 
force and subtlety, concludes by lauding the muscular 
glories of the Spartans, and by recommending, instead 
of the demoralising amusement of the stage, boating, 
dancing, and all athletics which strengthen the body 
without corrupting the heart. 

In the hard winter in February, every morning and 
evening for three weeks, he went to the old turret at the 


LETTER ON THE THEATRE. 


93 


foot of his garden, overlooking the valley of Mont- 
morency, and there he sat, exposed to bitter cold, and 
wrote his passionate reply “with no fire but the heat 
of his heart to warm him.” When this “Letter to 
M. d’Alembert,” which Jean Jacques fondly called his 
“ Benjamin,” appeared, it gave umbrage to the philo- 
sophers, whom he always bitterly calls the “ Holbachic 
coterie,” and stirred the rage of the patriarch of Ferney, 
who saw the chances of his plays being performed in the 
city of Calvin diminishing under the malign influence 
of Rousseau. 

Jean Jacques was not idle at Montlouis. The * New 
Heloise ’ was in the hands of the printers ; ‘ Emile ’ was 
being written ; the * Social Contract,’ which had been 
constructed out of materials for the treatise on the ‘ Po- 
litical Institutions,” which he abandoned, was finished ; 
while his spare hours at home were devoted to copy- 
ing music. Neither was he yet out of the meshes of 
the world. People intruded upon him in the country; 
and he consented sometimes to visit in town. He even 
dined with Madame d’Epinay. Of course, though he 
entered into society, he did not the less grumble at it; 
and he complained that the favours of the rich were too 
expensive for a poor man like him to receive. Peevishly 
he murmurs : “ If a lady wrote to me from Paris to the 
Hermitage or to Montmorency, she regretted the two- 
pence the postage of the letter would cost me. She sent 
it by one of her servants, who arrived on foot all per- 
spiring, and to whom I gave a dinner and a crown, 
which he had well earned. If she proposed that I 
should pass eight or fifteen days with her in her country- 
house, she said to herself, * This will be a saving to the 


94 


ROUSSEAU. 


poor fellow; during that time his food will cost him 
nothing.’ She never thought that during that time I 
should do no work ; that my household expenses, my 
lodging, and my linen and my clothes, were still con- 
tinued ; that I paid my barber double ; that it cost me 
more to be in her house than in my own.” Worse 
still, he counts up what it had cost him to visit at 
Madame d’Houdetot’s once adored house. 

Near Montlouis was the chateau of Montmorency, 
where the Due and Duchesse de Luxemburg spent some 
time every year. After he had settled near them, they 
sent inviting him to sup with them whenever it pleased 
him ; but all their invitations he declined, although the 
fascinating Comtesse de Boufflers added her solicitations. 
At last, one day the Duke called with some friends, and 
was received by Rousseau at his rickety house, in a room 
ill-floored, amongst dirty dishes and broken pots. After 
this visit, Jean Jacques felt himself obliged to return 
it, and this began one of the most pleasing rela- 
tions of his varied life ; for under the sunshine of this 
aristocratic favour his heart melted. “ I loved them,” 
he owned to Malesherbes, “although I hate the great; 
I hate their state, their hardness, their prejudices, their 
littlenesses, and all their vices ; and I would hate them 
more if I despised them less.” The Duchess was a 
leader of society. She was beautiful, witty, and haughty. 
She had the power of making herself charming, and the 
power of making herself feared; her sarcastic sayings 
and her delicate phrases fluttered from lip to lip; her 
likes or dislikes could make or unmake a social reputa- 
tion. “ She rules wherever she is,” said Madame du 
Deffand, “ and makes always the impression she wishes. 


MADAME DE LUXEMBURG. 


95 


She uses her advantages almost in the same way as a 
god, and lets us believe in our free-will while she deter- 
mines us, and like a god makes elect and reprobate by 
the height of her omnipotence. She is penetrating 
enough to frighten one, and is more feared than loved.” 
So she appeared in society : this is how she appeared to 
ltousseau : — 

“ Hardly had I seen her before I was conquered. I found 
her charming, with that charm which stands the test of time 
— the fittest to act upon my heart. I expected to find in 
her a conversation biting and full of epigrams ; but it was 
not so — it was much better. The conversation of Madame de 
Luxemburg does not sparkle with wit : it has no sallies, it has 
not even finesse , but it has an exquisite delicacy wdiich never 
strikes and always pleases. Her flatteries are the more intox- 
icating because they are simple ; it is said that they escape 
her involuntarily, and that it is her heart wdiich overflows, 
only because it is too full. I believed I saw from the first 
visit that, in spite of my awkward air and clumsy phrases, 
I did not displease her. Every lady of the Court can per- 
suade you of that, whether true or not, when they wish ; 
but all do not know like Madame de Luxemburg how to 
render this persuasion so agreeable that no one ever w^ould 
think of doubting it.” 

This respect for Madame de Luxemburg was mingled, 
however, with timidity, and he was more at ease with 
the more homely Marshal. 

His new friends treated him with great kindness ; and 
while his house at Montlouis was being repaired, they put 
at his service a house in the middle of the park. There 
he stayed till his home was put to rights, and after that 
he still kept the key of this house, to which he went two 
or three times a-week. The “ little chateau,” as it was 


96 


ROUSSEAU. 


called, was in a lovely situation, with the lake on one 
side, and an orangery on the other. In this delicious 
solitude, during the spring of 1759, in the midst of. the 
woods, with the songs of birds and the perfumes of 
orange-trees, Jean Jacques composed the fifth hook of 
1 Emile ’ in a continued ecstasy. Rising with the sun, 
he hastened every morning to breathe the scented air, 
and was happy in the society of Therese, his cat, and 
his dog : the name of the last he had judiciously changed 
from “ Due ” to “ Turc ” not to offend his ducal friends. 
In July, when they were in the country, Rousseau was 
constantly in attendance. The mornings he spent with 
Madame de Luxemburg; after dinner he walked with 
the Duke. There was always a prominent place for him 
at table; every respect was paid to the distinguished 
hermit. He, however, was not quite at ease with his 
hostess ; he was not ready with his talk, and feared her 
nimble wit when he was present, and her sarcastic criti- 
cism when his hack was turned. To save himself, there- 
fore, the embarrassment of conversation, he offered to 
read the yet unpublished 1 New Heloise. 5 Every morn- 
ing at ten o’clock Jean Jacques appeared at the chateau, 
and read aloud to the Duchess, who was in bed, and to 
the Duke, who sat beside her. She was charmed with 
the hook, and with the author. “ She spoke of noth- 
ing hut me, — thought of nothing else, — said civil things 
of me from morning till night, and embraced me ten 
times a -day. She insisted on my always having the 
place by her side at table ; and when great lords wished 
to take it, she told them it was mine, and made them 
sit elsewhere. The impression these charming manners 
made upon me, who was subjugated by the least mark 


AMONGST THE ARISTOCRACY. 


97 


of affection, may be easily guessed.” Rousseau was 
flattered. He loved admiration, even when he seemed 
most to shrink from it; the chief miseries of his life 
were the fear of losing it, and the fancy that he had 
lost it. He said truly that he liked humble fare and 
simple living ; but he did not dislike on his terrace at 
Montlouis, shaded with limes, with syringas and lilacs 
and woodbines, to receive in the afternoon the friends 
of the Due de Luxemburg, — the Due de Choiseul, the 
Duchesse de Boufflers, the Prince de Tingri, and the 
Comtesse de Boufflers, and “ other persons of that 
rank,” as he says with complacency,— who had come up 
a fatiguing ascent to see the famous man, and sat and 
talked so affably on the stone benches. -Democrat 
though he was, he felt it the “ greatest honour letters 
ever procured him,” that the Prince de Conti twice 
came to see him, and played chess in the turret with 
him, although Jean Jacques had courage enough to 
checkmate him, in spite of the signals of horrified 
courtiers. “ Monseigneur,” said he, “I honour your 
serene highness too much not always to beat you at 
chess ; ” and, to show further independence, he sharply 
refused his presents of game. 

In 1760 there was surreptitiously published a letter 
which Rousseau had written in 1757 to Voltaire on receiv- 
ing his poem on the earthquake which destroyed Lisbon in 
1755. That poem, so powerful and passionate, while not 
denying a God^ puts in their most desolating aspect those 
calamities whose accordance with a beneficent Providence 
it treats as insoluble^ Rousseau, jealous for the honour 
of God in an age of scepticism, replied to Voltaire by an 
argument which strove to show how even in seeming evils 

G 


F.C. — XVII. 


98 


ROUSSEAU. 


there is always a wise purpose. He insists, according to 
his favourite doctrine, that society, not God, is to blame 
for human ills ; that the miseries of life arise, not in a 
state of nature, hut in a state of civilisation — not from 
the faults of Providence, hut from the errors of man. This 
very earthquake at Lisbon is an instance. It was not 
nature that assembled 20,000 houses, each six or seven 
storeys high; and if the inhabitants of that city had 
been dispersed over the country, or more lightly housed, 
there would have been little or no danger. Every one 
would have fled at the first shock, and would have been 
twenty miles away as merry as if nothing had happened. 
Can we expect the laws of nature to be altered to suit 
the caprices of men 1 In that case we would only have 
to build a town in order to secure a place from an earth- 
quake. While, according to the pious, Providence is 
always right, and, according to philosophers, it is always 
wrong, he holds that Providence is probably neither right 
nor wrong in individual events, but acts by general 
beneficent laws, which make no exception in favour of 
persons. 

“ I cannot help remarking,” he concludes, “ the singular 
contrast between you and me on the subject of this letter. 
Sated with glory and disabused of empty greatness, you live 
free in the midst of abundance. Sure of your own immor- 
tality, you philosophise tranquilly on the nature of the soul; 
and if the body or the heart suffers, you have Tronchin for 
your doctor or your friend. You, however, find only evil 
upon the earth ; and I, obscure, poor, tormented with an 
incurable ailment, meditate with pleasure in my retreat, and 
find everything is good. Whence come these apparent con- 
tradictions ? You have yourself explained it. You enjoy, 
and I hope — and hope beautifies everything.” 


RUPTURE WITH VOLTAIRE. 


99 


Thus wrote Jean Jacques, living poorly on a pre- 
carious income of <£60, to the rich Voltaire with his 
<£2000 or <£3000 a - year. The letter was politely 
acknowledged by Voltaire, for it is full of professions of 
profound respect for a writer whom Jean Jacques owns 
as his master. It was only after they had quarrelled that 
Rousseau said with regard to this poem on the Disaster 
of Lisbon, that Voltaire, “while he appeared to believe 
in God, never really believed in anything but the 
Devil.” 1 When, now, this epistle was published 
without the consent of either party, Rousseau wrote 
explaining matters ; but in his letter to Voltaire (June 
17, 1760) he spoke words which prevented all good re- 
lations continuing with a man in whom sweetness of 
temper was not the most prominent quality. 

“ I love you not, monsieur. You have done me, your 
disciple and enthusiastic admirer, the most painful injuries. 
You have corrupted Geneva, in return for the shelter it 
has afforded you ; you have alienated from me my fellow- 
citizens, in return for the lavish applause of you I have 
given them. It is you who render residence in my coun- 
try insupportable to me; it is you who will oblige me to 
die in a foreign land, deprived of all the consolations of the 
dying, and cause me to be thrown into the ditch, while all 
the honours a man can expect will accompany you in my 
country. Finally, I hate you, because you have desired 
that I should ; but I hate you as a man still more worthy 
of loving you had you chosen.” 

Voltaire was furiously angry at this wild epistle : 
“this arch-madman,” “this dog of Diogenes,” “this 
charlatan,” are the gentle terms by which Voltaire hence- 
forth spoke of him ; while Rousseau spoke and wrote 
1 Confessions, B. ix. 


100 


ROUSSEAU. 


not less bitterly of that “braggart” ( fanfaron ) “of im- 
piety,” and that “ Polchinello.” The two great leaders 
of the last century — the one of rational and the other 
of sentimental philosophy — henceforth continued as 
hostile in life as they were in spirit and in purpose. 1 

It was in the end of 1760 that ‘La Nouvelle Heloise’ 
appeared. “ All Paris,” Eousseau says, “ was impatient 
to see the romance, and the booksellers’ shops in the 
Rue St Jacques and in the Palais Royal were besieged 
by people who sought news about it.” 2 He had spread 
news of the book beforehand, which whetted curiosity. 
Duclos spoke in admiration of it at the Academy ; 
Madame de Luxemburg confided fascinating details of 
it to favoured friends at Court ; Madame d’Houdetot 
whispered piquant reports to eager groups in the salons ; 
it was hinted that strange passionate incidents of the 
writer’s own life would be found in it — an impression 
which Jean Jacques carefully did not remove. When 
it came out, booksellers could not supply enough copies: 
it was lent out at twelve sous a volume (there were 
four), which was not to be detained beyond an hour. 
With deep pleasure Rousseau relates how one night, 
the Princess de Talmont, when dressed for the ball 
during the Carnival, took up a volume half an hour 
before the time of starting, read on till midnight, when 
she ordered her carriage : on being reminded at two 
o’clock in the morning that the carriage was waiting 

1 When, in 1771, subscriptions were being raised for a statue to 
Voltaire, Rousseau haughtily sent a subscription, writing, “I have 
paid sufficiently dear to have the right of being allowed this hon- 
our.” Voltaire was with difficulty persuaded to allow the money to 
be accepted from his enemy. 

2 Confessions, B. xi. 


THE * NEW HELOISE’ PUBLISHED. 


101 


still, read on till four o’clock, when she ordered the 
horses to he taken out, and then went to bed, where 
she continued reading during the rest of the morning. 
Society was enthusiastic ; and Rousseau even boldly 
assures us that “ women were so intoxicated with both 
the book and its author, that there were very few even 
in the highest ranks of whom he could not have made a 
conquest if he had tried.” Anybody would have given 
anything for a scrap of the author’s handwriting, or a 
glass out of which he had drunk ; high-horn dames 
thought it an honour to speak to dull Therese le Yas- 
seur, or to pat his dog “ Turc ; ” ladies corresponded 
with him in the characters of his Julie and Claire, 
with all the effusion the names suggest ; admirers burst 
into tears on seeing him for the first time. Amidst 
the general applause, there were some discriminating and 
some censorious voices heard : not a few men of the world 
laughed at the pedantry and haisers acres of Julie and 
the ineffable excellence of M. de W olmar ; while Voltaire 
proclaimed the work intolerably dull, and asserted that 
it was crushed by “ Aloisia ” — a criticism under the name 
of the Marquis de Ximenes, which he himself had 
concocted. 

Overwhelmed with reputation, Rousseau was exact- 
ing of attention, and he thought that as his intimacy 
lengthened with Madame de Luxemburg, it did not 
become stronger. When he had finished reading to 
her the ‘Xew Helo'ise,’ he began ‘Emile,’ which he 
naturally found was not so much relished ; and he 
immediately fancied that less attention was being paid 
to him, that he did not sup quite so often, and jealously 
noted that he did not always get the old foremost place 


102 


ROUSSEAU. 


at table. In reality, the Duchess was exceedingly kind, 
in her grand manner which would tolerate no famil- 
iarity ; and when she called she would even embrace 
Therese, to the joy of the poor woman and the pro- 
found satisfaction of Rousseau. Jean Jacques, deeming 
himself very ill in the middle of 1761, besought her to 
search for one of his children, whose recovery would glad- 
den the mother’s heart ; and he asserted that his neglect 
to take means of identifying them had “ troubled with 
remorse his repose for several years.” She failed, and 
on the whole the father was not inconsolable : he feared 
a wrong child might be palmed off on him, while his 
own parental feelings were dead. Accordingly he was 
doubly gratified — pleased at easing his conscience by 
seeking for the deserted children, still more pleased at 
the search being unsuccessful. 

Much more successful efforts were made by the Duchess 
to secure the publication of ‘ Emile,’ and arrangements 
were made with one bookseller in Paris and another 
in Amsterdam, through Malesherbes, the most liberal- 
minded censor of the press, and the author got 6000 
francs for his work, while the ‘ Social Contract ’ was 
sold to Rey of Amsterdam for 1000 francs. In order 
to avoid consequences, it was necessary for any book 
of social, political, and religious courage to be printed 
abroad. To offend a Minister or to affront his mistress 
by a phrase, was more dangerous than to utter the most 
glaring immorality in every page. The risk was great of 
being sent to the P>astille to expiate a crime never in- 
tended, or of being banished the country for trying to 
benefit it. Hence it was that philosophic writers escaped 
under the screen of anonymity, though their works were 


PERILS OF AUTHORSHIP. 


103 


burned. Voltaire, in the calmest way in the world, denied 
the authorship of books everybody knew he had writ- 
ten; and ‘La Pucelle,’ ‘Saul/ the ‘Philosophical Dic- 
tionary,’ he disowned with the utmost effrontery. When 
examined in prison as to the authorship of the ‘ Letter 
on the Blind,’ Diderot solemnly on oath denied that he 
knew anything about it. D’Holbach published his 
‘System of Nature’ under the name of a man who had 
been dead ten years. Turgot concealed his part in the 
Encyclopedia with most painful anxiety. Helvetius, 
whose ‘ L’Esprit ’ was burned, humbly and publicly 
recanted his errors. Ministers were very glad of 
any excuse for publicly ignoring the author, whom 
they perhaps personally knew, while burning the work 
to please a powerful personage, or at the command of a 
dominant party. Rousseau, however, was too bold, and 
was too proud, not to put his name upon the title- 
page of everything he wrote, and he suffered the conse- 
quences. Until ‘Emile’ appeared, Jean Jacques was in 
intense mental agony. In the autumn of 1761, and 
through the winter, he was ill, and endured constant 
physical pain night and day. His ailment affected his 
mind, and threw him into a delirium of agitation. He 
was in the deepest anxiety as to the fate of his book : 
the delay he attributed to the machinations of Jesuits, 
of philosophers, of Jansenists, and fancied that his work 
would suffer from mutilations, which he dreaded more 
than all the prosecutions he himself might undergo. 
At last the work appeared in May 1762, two or three 
months later than the ‘ Social Contract.’ 


104 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE ‘NEW HELOiSE/ OR ‘JULIE.* 

“ Whoever does not love the * Houvelle Heloise/ ” wrote 
Rousseau one day, “ may have my esteem, hut never my 
friendship ; whoever does not idolise Julie does not know 
what it is to love ; whoever is not the friend of St 
Preux cannot be mine.” If these were the conditions 
of friendship with Jean Jacques to-day, his circle of 
friends, it may be feared, would be very small. It is 
impossible to enter into the old enthusiasm felt by en- 
tranced society, as the readei to-day takes down from 
some unused shelf the cld dusty volumes bound in 
dingy calf, and turning over the leaves, now yellow with 
age, reads in cold critical mood those letters written, as 
their author says, in “erotic ecstasies,” full of a man- 
ner of loving as dead as the age the lovers lived in. 
These old-fashioned pages throb with passion still, the 
letters quiver with emotion as when first they were 
written ; but it is a passion which has ceased to affect 
the reader of to-day, and the characters have little hold 
now upon the sympathy of any human being. It is 
fair, however, to remember the author’s own warning — 
that his writings “ can only please those who read them 


* NEW HriLOiSE.’ 


105 


with the same heart as that which dictated them.” In the 
‘ New Heloise * the sentiment of a sentimental age reached 
its most characteristic expression, and society in the last 
century found little extravagant in its glowing pages. 

The ‘New Heloise ’ is a remarkable combination of 
overstrained sentiment and practical good sense, without 
any of that faculty which we call the sense of humour 
being employed to restrain or harmonise them. Letters 
full of the pleadings of wild love alternate with letters 
full of sedate practical wisdom ; transports of disap- 
pointed affection, sagacious schemes of infant education, 
charming pictures of provincial life, the wisest hints on 
landscape gardening, homilies full of courage and elo- 
quence on such subjects as duelling and suicide, caustic 
notes on society, and exquisite sketches of rural ways 
and country scenery, succeed and mingle with each 
other, without interval or classification. When Eousseau 
wrote, French society was enthusiastic over the novels 
of Samuel Eichardson ; and there can be little doubt 
that Eousseau was influenced more or less by his Eng- 
lish rival. Like him, he adopts the form of letters for 
his romance; like him, he attacks social follies and vices, 
and even the defects of the opera and the theatre ; like 
him, he argues against duelling, immorality, and dissi- 
pation ; he enforces the duties of the rich to the poor, 
of masters to their dependants on their estates, by the 
example of the Wolmars at Clarens, as Eichardson had 
done by the example of Sir Charles Grandison and 
of Pamela. It would be easy, of course, to mark points 
of utter difference, but it would be easy also to show 
further their curious likeness of method, and frequent 
similarity of moral purpose and social teaching. 


106 


ROUSSEAU. 


A sketch of the incidents in this romance of “ philo- 
sophical gallantry ” cannot give an adequate notion of the 
contents of the work, which certainly does not depend 
on its slight plot and feeble action. St Preux, the hero, 
is introduced to us as tutor to the daughter of the Baron 
d’Etange, and between them there rises a passionate 
affection. As the title of the book implies, the guilty 
love of Abelard and Heloise is repeated in their case, 
to Julie’s shame. On being told of the affection be- 
tween them, the Baron indignantly refuses to allow his 
daughter to marry one so inferior in rank. He will 
not even listen with patience to the intercession of Lord 
Edward Bomston, an Englishman, who plays a benevo- 
lent part in the story, and who appeals in St Preux’s 
favour, offering even to endow him with half his fortune. 
In vain this magnanimous friend pleads that nobility is 
not written with ink on old parchments, but graven 
upon the heart — a kind of nobility, however, to which 
the egotist lover can lay little claim. The Baron is 
impervious on all points. 

“ If the son-in-law [pleads Bomston] whom I propose to 
you cannot reckon, like you, a dubious line of forefathers, 
he shall be the founder and head of- his house, as your first 
ancestor was of yours. Would you consider yourself dis- 
honoured by alliance with the head of your own family ; 
and does not this contempt reflect upon yourself? How 
many great names would sink into oblivion if only those 
were reckoned which had begun with a man of merit ? 
Judge of the past by the present ; for two or three citizens 
who distinguish themselves by honest means, a thousand 
knaves every day ennoble their families ; and what does this 
nobility, of which their descendants are so proud, prove, if 
not the thefts and infamy of their ancestor ? . . . Whatever 


‘ new iieloise; 


107 


you may think of me, I should be very sorry to have no 
other proof of my merit than the name of a man who died 
500 years ago.” 

Such democratic sentiments only served, of course, to 
increase the dislike of the father to the proposed son- 
in-law, and the irritation of the noble at the depreci- 
ation of his order. St Preux at last leaves the district 
with reluctance and in anguish, for Julie, moved by the 
rage of her father and the tears of her mother, urges his 
departure. Her cousin Claire, the confidant of Julie (as 
Miss Anne Howe is of Clarissa Harlowe), describes to 
her the heartrending scene. “ I saw him, like one out 
of his senses, throw himself on his knees upon the 
staircase, kissing the steps a thousand times, and D’Orbe 
could hardly tear him from the cold stone, against 
which he pressed himself, uttering prolonged moans.” 
M. d’Orbe, deeply affected, returned with his handker- 
chief at his eyes, and told her how Lord Edward waited 
at the door in his carriage, and, hurrying to meet him, 
and pressing him to his breast,- said in a tender voice, 
“Come, unfortunate man — come and pour your griefs 
into a heart which loves you.” After his departure, St 
Preux corresponds with Julie in letters full of desola- 
tion, receiving answers full of sympathy, mixed with 
sage admonition, with learned references to Cato and 
Eegulus, — for in all the transports of her love, she 
always writes with an air of superior wisdom, and her 
lover seems to act far less like her tutor than she to 
speak like his governess. Her discreetness, however, 
only increases his sense of grievance. 

u But you, Julie ! — oh you ! who once knew how to love, 
— how has your tender heart forgotten to live ? how is the 


108 


ROUSSEAU. 


sacred fire extinguished in your breast ? how have you lost 
the taste for those heavenly pleasures which you alone could 
inspire and feel? You chase me away without pity; you 
banish me with opprobrium ; you give me up to my despair; 
and you do not see, in the error which misleads you, that in 
making me miserable, you take away your own happiness. 
0 Julie ! believe me, you will in vain seek another heart 
akin to your own : a thousand will, without doubt, adore 
you ; mine alone knows how to love you.” 

From the country St Preux passes to Paris ; and 
although he writes that he enters with “ secret horror 
this vast desert of the world,” and that “ this chaos ” 
offers him only “ a dreadful solitude, where dreary silence 
reigns,” he soon begins to indulge pretty freely in its 
pleasures. The Swiss tutor now notes the vices of 
society with the open eye of a foreigner, which enabled 
Rousseau to detect and criticise the evils of French 
customs and institutions with so much force and fresh- 
ness. He ridicules (and it is Jean Jacques who speaks 
through him) the follies of popular amusements and the 
mode of fashionable talk, where sentiment is on the lips, 
but never in the heart; while with more vigour than 
consistency he condemns the laxity of conventional 
morals in the brilliant world of Paris. His lively and 
admirable notes on society are received with even less 
graciousness than his abject confessions of lapse into 
vice ; and Julie utters severe regrets that since he has 
begun to live among people of ability, his own seems 
to have diminished. 

This correspondence is for a while interrupted by a 
terrible discovery. Julie's hidden letters from St Preux 
are found out, and the fatal secret is open. The fury 
of the father, the grief of her dying mother at the dis- 


* NEW H^LOISE.’ 


109 


honour of her daughter, add to her own hitter remote. 
At last, urged by the Baron, Julie gains from her lover 
a surrender of her engagement. He sends the scornful 
note: “ I give to Julie d’Etange the right of disposing of 
herself, and of giving her hand without consulting her 
heart ; ” and at the same time he writes furiously to the 
Baron, bidding him “ Go, father, barbarous and unworthy 
of a name so gentle. You meditate the most frightful 
murder (j parricide), while a daughter, tender and sub- 
missive, immolates herself to your prejudices” — and so 
on, in his wonted strain of un virtuous indignation ; for 
St Preux never doubts for ail instant that it is the 
Baron’s solemn parental duty to give his daughter to the 
man who has surreptitiously loved and cruelly wronged 
her. Though thus renouncing Julie, his passion forces 
him to see her once more, even though he learns she is 
ill with the dreaded small-pox. The scene is afterwards 
passionately related to Julie by Claire, w'ho admits him 
to her cousin’s room, where she lies insensible: — 

“ He threw himself on his knees and kissed your curtains, 
— weeping, he raised his hands and eyes to heaven sobbing ; 
he could hardly contain his grief and his cries. Without 
seeing him, you mechanically uncovered one of your hands. 
He seized it with a kind of fury, and the kisses of fire which 
he applied to the sick hand awoke you more than the voices 
and murmurings of those who surrounded you.” 

The natural result of this frantic scene is, that St Preux 
also takes the small-pox. 

In time, pressed by her father’s importunities, Julie 
marries M. de Wolmar, a man of fifty, estimable, calm, 
philosophical, but, to Julie’s secret grief, an unbeliever. 
In his despair St Preux meditated suicide, from which 


110 


ROUSSEAU. 


he was dissuaded by Bomston, who induced him to sail 
with Admiral Anson in his famous voyage round the 
world. The eloquent letters which were written in 
favour of suicide, and Bomston’s counter -arguments, 
gain a sombre interest from the sinister circumstances 
connected with Kousseau’s own death. When we hear in 
mind the state of his health at the time he wrote these 
pages, never free from pain day or night, we may well 
believe that if not in the casuistry of St Preux, at least 
in the measured opinion of Bomston, he expresses his 
own private views. While pleading powerfully against 
suicide, Lord Edward admits that violent bodily pain, 
when incurable, may excuse a man for putting an end 
to his existence. “ For even before dying he has ceased 
to live, and in ending his existence he is only complet- 
ing his release from a body which embarrasses him, and 
which contains his soul no longer.” Allowing himself 
to live, St Preux sets sail, and six years afterwards he 
returns, when Wolmar, although he knows the old re- 
lations between him and his former pupil, asks him to 
Clarens to live with them. The invitation accepted, the 
philosophical husband witnesses with perfect equan- 
imity the rapturous greeting. “ At the sound of her 
voice,” wrote St Preux to Lord Edward, “ I felt myself 
tremble. I turned round, — I saw her. ... 0 my lord ! 
0 my friend ! ... We embraced each other in silence 
and in a sacred rapture, and it was not till after this ex- 
quisite moment that our voices broke forth in confused 
murmurs, and our eyes filled with tears.” All this 
Wolmar observes with calm serenity. With perfect 
confidence in the quondam lovers, and still more con- 
fidence in his own knowledge of human nature, he 


e NEW H^LOISE.’ 


Ill 


leaves Clarens in a few days, and goes away to a distant 
property. 

We are now at the second part of the ‘ New H41oise,’ 
and the fourth and fifth books, which Bousseau con- 
sidered “ masterpieces of diction.” The old life of Julie 
has passed away, her impetuous love has given place to 
tender friendship for her former lover (whom she calmly 
recommends to marry her cousin), and to steady respect 
for her husband. Marriage is to her a sacrament, and 
the past is dead and buried. Bousseau now paints 
the wedded life in all its beauty and simplicity, and 
the immoral fashionable world found their own con- 
demnation in those pages which they read with tears 
of admiration but not of repentance. “ What human 
duty,” exclaims Julie, “can they regard who neglect 
the foremost of all 1 ” as with her words and example she 
deals a keen blow at a society in which people lived hein- 
ously without fear and without reproach, and in which 
it was computed that when Madame du DefFand began her 
career, only three wives in Court circles lived respectably 
with their husbands. Julie performs the duties of mother 
and wife with the dignity and grace of a high-bred gentle- 
woman. We learn all the details of the household, 
where perfect harmony prevails ; where everything is 
simple and everybody is true. The servants, carefully 
chosen, seldom leave ; they have wages, which increase 
by a twentieth every year of their service ; while work- 
men outside are paid according to their work. There is 
little communication between the male and female ser- 
vants ; they live apart. The women, in the nursery on 
Sunday evenings, have their little parties with their 
friends ; the men, after evening service, have their games, 


112 


ROUSSEAU. 


at which Madame and M. de Wolmar are often present ; 
while in winter there are dances in the hall, all the ser- 
vants, the neighbours, and sometimes Madame de Wol- 
mar, joining in the pastime. Old peasants are now and 
then brought to the house by Wolmar, when they dine 
at his table, are treated with respect, and go home with 
presents for their families. The house is near the public 
road, and Wolmar and his wife are open-handed to the 
beggars, who swarm round them. This course is de- 
fended on very characteristic grounds ; although, when 
we remember the social oppressions which in those days 
so clearly originated poverty and destitution, this con- 
duct is not so foolish as critics have deemed it. 

“ We permit [argued Wolmar], we even support at great 
expense, a great many useless professions, many of which 
only serve to corrupt our morals. Now, so far from needing 
to fear any evil consequences from the exercise of the trade 
of begging, on the contrary it serves to excite the sentiment 
of humanity, which is so useful to unite all mankind. 
Again, if begging be regarded as a talent, why should we 
not reward the eloquence of a beggar who has wit enough to 
excite our compassion and induce us to relieve him, as well 
as I would an actor who can make me shed a few useless 
tears ? If the one makes me admire good actions in others, 
the other makes me do a good action myself. It belongs to 
the legislature to take care that there are no beggars ; but, in 
order to make them give up their trade, is it necessary to 
make all other ranks of the people inhuman ? ” 

Rousseau, never forgetful of the plain Genevese way 
of living, describes how, amidst all this charity, there is 
strict frugality at home, — no luxury in food, no super- 
fluity of insolent servants to aid each other in doing 
nothing. The embroidery is done by the women ; the 


‘ NEW H^LOISE.’ 


113 


wool is sent to the manufactory to be made into cloth ; 
the wine, oil, and bread are made at the house ; the 
butcher is paid in cattle ; the grocer receives wheat for 
his goods ; the sale of wine and grain supplies money for 
those extra expenses of charity which Julie dispenses to 
the deserving poor. Meanwhile the children are edu- 
cated generally in those principles which Itousseau has 
laid down in ‘Emile,’ especially in religion — for, all devout 
as Julie is with her deistical views, she does not teach 
her children piety, nor even to pray, but says her prayers 
audibly in their room, so that they may learn without 
being taught ; neither does she teach them a catechism, 
not wishing them to believe what are to them unintelli- 
gible words, simply because “ she wishes them one day 
to be Christians.” Devout and deeply religious, she has 
one great sorrow: Wolmar, w r ho had once been an 
atheist, is still an utter sceptic. Educated in the Greek 
Church, in renouncing that he gave up faith in all creeds 
and clergy, for it was his wont to assert that he had 
only met with three priests in his life who believed in 
God. This religious infidelity of her husband is Julie’s 
deep grief, and “ how a man with so much virtue and so 
little vanity could be an unbeliever passes her compre- 
hension.” Fearing the evil effects upon the peasantry 
and upon her children, Wolmar is persuaded by his wife 
to conceal his views. He goes to church, avoids giving 
scandal, and “pays all that respect to the established 
religion of the country which the State has a right to 
demand of its citizens.” 

The pleasures of calm country life, the simple happi- 
ness of the home, the genial relations of the poor with 
the rich, are described with wonderful freshness, while 


F.C. — XVII. 


H 


114 


KOUSSEAU. 


the admiration for nature in its wild beauty is found in 
these pages as in no pages ever before written. One day 
St Preux goes with Madame de Wolinar to visit a place 
which had tender associations for both connected v T ith 
it. It is at the rocks of Meillerie, on the opposite side 
of Lake Geneva from Clarens, so long a shrine of pil- 
grimage for admirers of Jean Jacques, but which have 
been broken up by engineers to open the road by the 
Simplon, which here passes by the side of the lake. 

“ This solitary place formed a retreat wild and desert, 
but full of those beauties which please only feeling natures, 
and appear horrible to others. At twenty paces from us 
a torrent, formed hy the melting of the snow, rolled past, 
carrying on its muddy tide stones, sand, and mud. Behind 
us, a chain of inaccessible rocks separated the platform on 
which we stood from that part of the Alps which is called 
the Glacieres, because of the enormous summits of ice which, 
incessantly accumulating, cover them from the beginning of 
the world. Forests of black firs shaded us gloomily to the 
right ; on the left, beyond the torrent, was an oak-wood ; 
and below, the immense plain of water formed by the lake 
in the bosom of the Alps, separated us from the richest 
slopes of the Canton de Vaud ; while the majestic peak of 
Jura crowned the landscape. In the midst of these grand 
and sublime objects, the little spot of ground on which we 
stood showed the charms of a cheerful rural retreat ; a few 
water-springs filtered through the rocks, and flowed along 
the grass in crystal threads; wild fruit-trees hung their 
heads above us ; the ground, moist and cool, was covered 
with grass and flowers. In comparing a retreat so sweet 
with the objects that surrounded it, it seemed as if the 
place might be the shelter of two lovers escaped alone from 
the overthrow of nature. When we had reached this spot, 
and I had gazed around me fbr some time, — ‘What!’ I said 
to Julie, looking at her with tearful eyes; ‘ does your heart 


‘KEW H^LOISE.’ 


115 


say nothing here to you ? do you not feel some emotion at 
the sight of a place so full of you ? ’ Then, without waiting 
for an answer, I led her towards the rock, and showed her 
her name carved in a thousand places, and several verses of 
Petrarch and Tasso appropriate to my state when I wrote 
them. . . . ‘ 0 J ulie,’ I said to her vehemently, ‘ eternal 
charm of my heart, behold the spot where formerly sighed 
for you the most faithful lover on earth ! Here your dear 
image made his happiness, and prepared him at last to 
receive yourself. There was then neither fruit nor shade, 
neither verdure nor flowers ; the brooks made no divisions ; 
there were no singing-birds, — the voracious hawk, the dismal 
raven, the terrible eagle of the Alps alone made these caverns 
resound ; immense masses of ice hung over all the rocks ; 
festoons of snow were the sole ornaments of these trees; 
everywhere round breathed the rigours ol winter and the 
horrors of frost : the fire in my heart alone made the place 
supportable, and whole days were spent in thinking of you. 
Here is the stone where I sat to contemplate from a distance 
your happy dwelling : upon this I wrote the letter which 
touched your heart. These sharp flints served me to carve 
your name. Here I passed the frozen torrent to regain one 
of your letters, 'which a wind had borne away. There I 
went to re-read and kiss a thousand times the last which 
you wrote to me. On this high bank I stood and measured, 
with eager gloomy gaze, the depths of these abysses. In 
short, it was here that, before my departure, I came to weep 
for you dying, and swore never to survive you.’ . . . 

I was going on in the same strain ; but Julie, seeing me ap- 
proach the edge, took fright, and seizing my hand, pressed 
it without a word, and with difficulty restrained a sigh ; 
then all at once turning away, she drew me with her. — ‘ Let 
us be gone [said Julie], my friend; the air of this place is 
not good for me.’” 

In the clear moonlight they cross the Lake of Geneva, 
and the measured sound of the oars, the silver gleam 


116 


ROUSSEAU. 


of the moon on the water, the fragrant air, all raising 
sad thoughts in St Preux’s mind, he is tempted to 
fling himself with Julie into the water, and end his 
torments; hut a gentler feeling passes over him. He 
hurst as usual into torrents of tears, which, he says, 
“relieved him greatly.” “When I recovered my self- 
possession, and came hack to Julie, I took her hand, in 
which she held her handkerchief, and felt that it was 
wet. ‘ Oh,’ I said, in a low tone, ‘ I see our hearts have 
not ceased to understand each other.’ ‘It is true,’ she 
said, in an altered voice, ‘ hut it is the last time they 
shall speak in this strain.’ ” 

This impassioned interlude, which did not altogether 
accord with the dutiful, wifely heart of Madame de 
Wolmar, is not repeated, and she goes on her simple 
way, guided by rules, on which, if she reasons too much 
like a pedant, she acts honestly, like a true woman. 
She had hitherto “ tried to overcome her affection by her 
principles, to resist temptations by her reason.” But 
now iii religion she finds her chief support. The 
romance ends abruptly with the death of Julie. As the 
result of her efforts to save her hoy from drowning she 
falls fatally ill, and dies — succeeding, by the impressive 
piety of her death, in preparing the way for the eventual 
conversion of Wolmar, and begging from her deathbed 
that St Preux should live at Clarens to console her hus- 
band and to educate her children. 

What was it that made the ‘Hew Heloise’ so popular? 
It did not pander to one popular folly, except that of 
sentiment; it condemns almost every social vice and 
every fashionable absurdity ; it censures eloquently 
duelling amongst men of honour, and affectation in 


* NEW HILLOISE.’ 


117 


women of fashion, — infidelity in morals and infidelity in 
faith ; it urges the care of the poor upon the rich who 
oppressed them, love of the country upon those who 
shunned it, frugality of living to those who despised it, 
social equality to those who hated it ; and yet it in- 
fluenced society with astonishing power. Under its 
spell, people became artificially natural and ostentatiously 
simple. To admire the country, to return to nature, to 
have “ expansive sensibility,” to take interest in the 
poor, to believe in Providence, became the fashion, — not 
a little owing to Rousseau’s teaching. The education 
of children, instead of being left to valets and priests, 
began at last to occupy the interest of parents ;(jvives 
were seen with their husbands ; fashionable mothers for — — > 
the first time nursed their infants j) rustic dresses became 
the fashion, and the amusements of peasants were graced 
by the presence of high-born ladies; in gardens there 
were sentimentally erected “ altars of friendship ; ” 
simple dresses, a la Jean Jacques , were advertised and 
worn ; 1 and even in official documents, formerly so dulf 
and dry, we find references to “ sensibility,” “ the feel- 
ings of the heart.” We must not attribute this al-. 
together to Jean Jacques. In Diderot’s writings and 
elsewhere in literature, in art, and in society, we cap 
see that there was already a movement towards less arti- 
ficial life, — a reaction from the unnatural tone of society 
which suffered from the dread malady of mnui, After 
all, it is no regeneration that Rousseau effects ; he merely 
gives a new outlet to the sentiment of an age worn and 
jaded by the ceremonial pleasures of an unreal life. 
People wept over the sorrows of Julie who never thought 
1 E. and J. de Goncourt : La Femme au dix-huiti&me si&cle, chap, xi. 


118 


ROUSSEAU. 


of imitating one of her good qualities. Fresh from per- 
usal of the romance, forgetting its fine advocacy of do- 
mestic union, the usually discreet Madame de Blot, who 
had been converted from worldliness by ‘ Clarissa Har- 
lowe,’ without seeing the slightest incongruity, exclaims 
to a brilliant company that “ there was no woman of 
feeling who would not need superior virtue to refrain 
from devoting her life to Rousseau, if she was sure of 
being loved by him.” 

It is difficult to tolerate the egoism of St Preux, who 
acts like a sensualist and boasts of his honour ; who, as 
his selfish aims are baffled, always bemoans his fate; 
and as we turn from him we think of the self-apostroplie 
of Richardson’s Lovelace : “ Lord help thee for a poor, a 
very poor, creature.” No one can feel deep interest even 
in Julie, so emotional, yet so didactic; so full of love, 
yet so fond of reasoning. The style and tone of the 
first part of the romance is so passionate, that Byron 
even maintained that there was more harm to be 
got from it than “Don Juan;” but Rousseau himself 
explains that it was not meant for girls, and, as he re- 
marked to Hume, it could not do any harm in France, 
since girls, being there always brought up in a con- 
vent, could not imitate Julie’s fault. Certainly for 
married women in French society, the second part was 
more wholesome reading than they at least had ever 
had. In a period when the loose fiction of Crebillon 
and Duclos was freely read by ladies, ‘Julie’ breathed 
a tone of wonderful purity. 

The ‘New Heloise ’ awakened admiration — feigned 
or real — for country life, its freshness, simplicity, and 
healthiness : for, as Ste Beuve says, Jean Jacques in- 


‘NEW HJSLOISE.’ 


119 


vented the sentiment de vert . Before he wrote, society 
knew nothing about the country, and cared nothing for 
its pleasures. Nobles either left their chateaus deserted, 
or when they visited them brought town hours, fashions, 
and amusements, in order to make provincial life toler- 
able for a month or two. But Jean Jacques carried his 
readers away from the noise of the city and formality 
of the Court, for none believed more heartily than he 
that “ God made the country and man made the town.” 
He gave to his age, like Cowper, pictures of rural land- 
scapes, that breathe with the sweetness of the bright 
dewy spring, of the humble labours and simple virtues 
of the peasantry, their merry laughter as they wrought in 
the vineyards, their songs as they reaped the harvest, 
their dances in the evening, their happiness under land- 
lords who did their duty, and under masters who treated 
them as friends. All this was new in an age when the 
country was the Siberia of society, and when country 
people were treated as cattle. No punishment was greater 
for a courtier in disgrace than to be sent to live in his 
chateau, where he wearied out the days that passed be- 
tween the arrival of each post, which brought him more 
news from Paris, and more hopes from Court. That 
Rousseau himself should live away from town and spend 
the winter at the Hermitage, confirmed, as we have seen, 
his friends in their worst fears that he was becoming 
mad. It was this hatred of rural life, causing the noblesse 
to desert their chateaus and their duties, which roused 
the animosity of the poor against the rich, who neglected 
them, and ultimately led to some of the worst evils of the 
Revolution. Rousseau laments the misery that prevailed 
amidst the loveliness and simplicity of the country. 


120 


ROUSSEAU. 


“ Where the taxes devour the produce of the earth, the 
eager avarice of the greedy tax-farmer, the inflexible severity 
of the inhuman master, impair the beauty of the prospect. 
The jaded horses near dying of blows, and the unhappy 
peasants emaciated with hunger, worn out by fatigue, covered 
with rags, are deplorable sights, and make one regret to be 
a man, when one thinks of the unfortunate beings whose 
blood it is necessary to consume. ,, 

It must be remembered when Rousseau is charged 
with encouraging the excesses of the Revolution by his 
other writings, that if his eloquent pleading for the 
poor had been more listened to, if those who had ad- 
mired his sentiment had followed his counsel, the Rev- 
olution would have lost much of its terror. 

Hot merely was it the charm of rural life which Jean 
Jacques painted for the first time ; — to him is due almost 
the discovery of the beauty of scenery, in its uncultivated 
freedom. When he wrote, people preferred to see nature 
in fancy dress, — the rectilinear walks in gardens, where 
yews were cut into figures of dragons, boxwood into 
forms of umbrellas. At a time during which Walpole 
said, “ When a Frenchman speaks of the Garden of 
Eden, he thinks of Versailles,” Rousseau described the 
tangled luxuriance of Madame de Wolmar’s “elysium” 
at Clarens, painting with loving hand its variety of 
shrubs and flowers, its simple wealth of nature, full 
of innumerable birds with their varied song and mani- 
fold plumage. All this is commonplace to us, but it 
was a daring novelty at a time when, as he scornfully 
says, if a rich man had such a place, he would get “ an 
architect who is paid dear to spoil nature,” and try to 
make it beautiful by rendering it fantastic. Such, till 
Rousseau spoke, was the taste of that artificial age, 


‘NEW HELOiSE.’ 


121 


■which despised alike the country and men if unculti- 
vated — an age when the fashionable Boucher painted 
his pictures in a boudoir hung with rose-coloured satin, 
and found nature “ too green and badly lighted.” 

Until Rousseau revealed to the eyes of society a new 
world of beauty, as by the touch of a magician’s wand, 
nature in its wilder and grander aspects was even less 
admired and as little appreciated as Gothic architecture, 
which then was considered barbarous. Even in our own 
country the taste had not yet been formed. White of 
Selborne speaks of “ the vast range of mountains called 
the Sussex downs,” which those Englishmen who shud- 
dered at the Alps could admire; but Gray considers 
Mont Cenis “ frightful ; ” Goldsmith complains that in 
Scotland “hills and rocks intercept every prospect,” 
and “ every part of the country presents the same dis- 
mal landscape;” and John Wilkes, when on the Grand 
Tour, can only say the Apennines are “ not near so 
high and horrid as the Alps.” Quite as little was 
nature, in its imposing aspects, admired on the Conti- 
nent, even at Geneva, where the trees were generally 
planted so as to obscure the view of the lake. It was 
the beauties of Alpine scenery, though not in its wildest 
aspects, which Rousseau was the first to love, and the 
first to make the world admire. In the presence of the 
mountains he felt his heart invigorated. Instead of 
merely echoing his melancholy moods, as we might 
expect, they raised him far above them all. 

“ Our meditations gain a character of sublimity and 
grandeur, proportioned to the objects around us. It 
seems as if, being lifted above all the haunts of men, we 
had left every low earthly feeling behind, and that, as we 


122 


ROUSSEAU. 


approach the ethereal regions, the soul imbibes something 
of their eternal purity. We are grave without being mel- 
ancholy, tranquil without being indolent, content merely 
to exist and to think ; our passions lose their painful vio- 
lence, and leave only a gentle emotion in our breasts. . . . 
In short, there is something magical in these mountainous 
prospects which ravish both senses and mind : one forgets 
everything, one forgets one’s self.” 

Very different was this healthy feeling from that of 
Byron, who never forgot himself and his woes, even 
in the presence of scenes like these. “Neither the 
music of the shepherd,” he wrote, “the crashing of 
the avalanche, the torrent, the glacier, the forest, nor 
the cloud, have for one moment lightened the weight 
upon my heart, nor enabled me to lose my own wretched 
identity in the majesty and the power and the glory 
around, above, beneath me.” Yet Rousseau seemed to 
have forgotten his cares whenever he was in presence 
of the outward world ; and none like him, the greatest 
prose poet of his century, loved so passionately, or 
painted with more beauty, the loveliness of the quiet 
country, and the grand aspects of nature. It is to his 
inspiration that are due the landscapes of St Pierre’s 
‘ Paul and Virginia,’ the magnificent descriptions in 
Chateaubriand’s ‘Atala’ and ‘Rene,’ the pensive 
pictures of Senancour’s ‘ Obennann.’ It is in the 
spirit of Rousseau that Wordsworth was affected by 
that harmony which he found between the heart of 
man and nature. The homelier pictures, the domestic 
scenes, described by Jean Jacques so fully, obviously 
suggested much of ‘ Werther,’ which appeared in 1774, 
and gave only too great an impetus to the sentimental 
school in Germany. 


* NEW H&LOISE.’ 


123 


Rousseau said that the purpose of his romance was to 
show that one might believe in a God without being a 
hypocrite, and he an unbeliever without being a knave ^ 
— for he had not yet quarrelled entirely with the philo- 
sophers. Rut this object, if not an after-thought, is a 
very subsidiary one. It is not the piety of Julie, or the 
unbelief of Wolmar (said to have been meant to repre- 
sent D’Holbach), which remains in the memory. These, 
which occupy a very small after-part of the book, are 
lost sight of in the scenes of passionate love in the first 
portion, and the pictures of country home-life in the 
last. No. one can understand the ‘New Helo'ise’ who 
has not read the * Confessions,’ for Rousseau lives in 
his characters as he speaks in their words. The ego- 
istic St Preux, both when uttering his love-rhapsodies 
and his bitter notes on society, writes like Jean Jacques 
himself. “ Julie,” as St Marc Girardin remarks, “ in 
her sins and in her repentance, is the history of Rousseau 
re-made and corrected by his imagination ; it is his life 
such as he would have lived it. To sin, and to repair 
the sin by repenting, is the fundamental idea of Julie’s 
history ; it is also the idea which seems to rule Rous- 
seau all his days.” Julie, Bomston, Wolmar, however 
they may differ in character and condition from Jean 
Jacques, are at times mere mouthpieces of his sentiments 
and opinions on social and moral questions. He had 
little dramatic power, but what his work in consequence 
loses as a work of art, it gains in psychological inter- k 
est, because it gives not merely the imaginary views of 
imaginary beings, but the real opinions of one whose 
most foolish as well as wisest words had immense weight 
in his day, and have still deep interest in ours. 


124 


CHAPTER VIII. 

* THE SOCIAL CONTRACT; OR, PRINCIPLES OP 
PUBLIC RIGHTS.’ 

In Prance, before Rousseau published the * Contrat 
Social,’ political thinkers had been very cautious, sim- 
ply because the utterance of bold political opinions was 
very dangerous. Views which were mere commonplaces 
in this country, were revolutionary sentiments there; 
and advocacy of the rights of the people was at once 
regarded as an infringement of the rights of the State, 
although most of the prosecution against free thought 
was at the instigation of the Church. It is always the 
case under a despotism, that matters are suspected to be 
in a critical state, if any dare to criticise them. There- 
fore, when writers of mark chose to ventilate popular 
notions, or to censure monarchical institutions, they 
were cautious enough either to write apologues, or to 
write without their name, and then deny the author- 
ship ; or to publish their works in Holland, and smuggle 
them into France in bales of goods, or in casks of pro- 
visions, so that under the innocent label of “ black and 
white peas” might be a consignment of books which 
were in danger of being burned by the executioner, and 


‘ THE SOCIAL CONTRACT.’ 


125 


whose author was in danger of lodging in the Bastille. 
As time went on the people gained courage. “Sire,” said 
the Marshal de Richelieu to Louis XVI., “ under Louis 
XIV. no one dared to speak ; under Louis XV. people 
whispered ; under your Majesty they speak aloud.” The 
brilliant writers of the Encyclopedia were meanwhile 
with ingenious precaution spreading free thought, and 
giving opinions on the very foundations of morals, re- 
ligion, and politics. When Rousseau wrote, however, 
it was still dangerous to ‘ speak aloud but none spoke 
so boldly, none so plainly as he, on the bases of society 
and government. When we bear in mind how disre- 
garded were the people, how privileged were the noblesse , 
how sacred were the kings, we can understand the im- 
mense impression made by the Republican views of the 
‘ Social Contract,’ expressed with a force, a precision, 
and a telling clearness of style and thought seldom 
before equalled. 

In order to understand the position held by this famous 
work — which proclaims the dogma of the “ sovereignty 
of the people,” — in the history of political doctrine, 
it is necessary to glance at the development of some 
of the leading views and theories which it contains. 
Long familiar with the views of Grotius and of Puf- 
fendorf, whose works he had read at Charmettes, it was, 
however, chiefly from England that Rousseau drew in- 
spiration, for there a succession of political writers had 
expressed more or less definitely those views which he 
formed into a political creed. Hooker held that the 
power of the ruler is derived from a contract between the 
prince and the people, although he did not support the 
right to depose the ruler if by his tyranny he broke the 


126 


ROUSSEAU. 


contract, — in this agreeing with the views afterwards 
expressed by Grotius, and later still by Puffendorf. Then 
came Hobbes, who, in curious contrast to Rousseau, 
looked upon a state of nature as a state of war, because in 
that condition no visible power exists to control the pas- 
sions and selfish desires of men. This state can only be 
changed by all transferring their power to one man, or 
company of men, “as if each should say to each : I con- 
cede to this man or company of men my authority and 
right of ruling myself, on condition that thou also 
transfer to the same person all thy authority and right 
of governing thyself.” Rut Hobbes — and Spinoza, whose 
political views so closely accord with his — denied that 
the absolute ruler can be deposed by the citizens, for he 
had made no pact with those who gave him the power ; 
and besides, each of those who gave the power is the 
author of all the actions of him on whom the power was 
bestowed. In this respect it will be seen how much he 
differs from Rousseau and others to whose teaching 
Rousseau was so much indebted. Lockes, seems to have 
influenced most of all the Genevese philosopher; and 
the calm views of the 1 Treatise on Government ’ find 
their bold, if not logical, conclusions in the impassioned 
reasoning of the ‘ Social Contract.’ His opinion that 
there exists a pact between the prince and the people, 
the breach of which engagement on the part of the 
former justifies rebellion, became part of the orthodox 
Whig creed, and was formally accepted by Parlia- 
ment when it declared that James II. had tried to sub- 
vert the constitution by breaking the original contract. 
The doctrine of “passive obedience” in England was 
shaken by the Revolution, which deposed a king ; the 


4 THE SOCIAL CONTRACT.’ 


127 


doctrine of “divine right” was shaken by the Hano- 
verian succession, which changed a dynasty, while the 
stanch supporters of non-resistance were only found 
amongst High Churchmen like Bishops Kettlewell and 
Ken, who called it devoutly “ the doctrine of the 
Cross.” But in France no events had yet occurred 
to destroy the old faith : the same dynasty continued, 
associated with all that was greatest in the country’s 
history ; and the faults and vices of the kings no 
more affected it in the minds of many than the vices of 
the popes affected the infallibility of the Papacy. The 
Gallican Church Avas keenly monarchical, and the clergy 
were still in harmony Avitli the opinion of Bossuet, Avho 
preached that kings were “ sacred things,” and that even 
if the rulers Avere “ as Avolves,” the Christians “ should 
be as sheep.” 

It remained for Rousseau to change the sedate argu- 
ments of publicists into a revolutionary explosive, and to 
apply doctrines Avliich had been innocuous in England to 
deadly effect in France. It is remarkable that the opinions 
Avhich proved most destructive across the Channel Avere 
imported from this country, where they were harmless. 
The deism and “ free-thinking ” of Chubb, Toland, and 
Tindal, Avhich only met Avith hot argument from the 
clergy, and cool indifference from the laity, when adopted 
by men like Voltaire helped to sap the faith of society 
and the institutions of the French people. The political 
opinions of Locke and Sydney, which had only served 
quietly to depose a king, when adopted by men like 
Rousseau, Avent to overturn ruthlessly the Avhole con- 
stitution of France. 

In sketching the opinions held before Rousseau, we can 


128 


ROUSSEAU. 


easily see how much was old, how much was original, 
in his famous doctrine. We know now that all this talk 
by Grotius, Hobbes, and Locke of a “ social contract ” 
is futile, — that it never was made, and never could have 
been kept. But theorists, like nature, abhor a vacuum, 
and the theory helped to account for existing facts. 
Writers up to Rousseau lived in a pre-scientific age of 
history ; the past — except through classic literature, of 
which the myths were accepted as truths — was unknown: 
it was a blank space, in which every thinker either put 
his theories or found them. Where now we deliberately 
examine every historical tradition, and, by the aid of 
comparative sociology and ethnology, search into the 
conditions of primitive life, and the origin of early 
institutions, — they gravely cited Lycurgus and Minos 
as models, quoted Livy for their prehistoric facts, and 
Plato for their political theories ; while they framed, 
as Grote says of mythology, “ a past which was never 
present.” They spoke of a “ state of nature ” of which 
they knew nothing, and of a “ social contract ” which 
never existed, as confidently as if this charter of human- 
ity was as veritable a document on parchment as the 
Magna Charta of England. 

In this little treatise there is nothing startling in 
style. In its concise paragraphs, its formal propositions, 
there is little rhetoric to carry people away with revolu- 
tionary zeal ; little invective to move them even to hatred 
of existing grievances. And yet the symmetry of the 
argument, the compactness of each clause, rendered it 
fatally attractive to those esprits redilignes who adore 
formulas, and to those fanatical politicians who insisted 
on the “ title-deeds of humanity,” and sought to carry 


f THE SOCIAL CONTRACT/ 


129 


out its teaching by overturning society. We take up the 
little volume now, and find it cold and harmless, like an 
exploded shell in an old battle-field, where once, however, 
it did deadly work. While we can see that its premises 
are false, its historical precedents fictitious, its conclu- 
sions wrong, its end impracticable, Rousseau’s age found 
in it the very gospel of liberty, the only way to regen- 
erate society — after an initial baptism of blood. 

The first sentence strikes the shrill key-note : “ Man 
is bom free, and is everywhere enslaved.” How can 
this loss of liberty be explained and justified 1 ? For 
merely to yield to superior force is an act, not of duty, 
but of prudence ; and the need of obeying the strongest 
lasts only so long as he is the strongest. The pistol a 
robber puts to your head is a power ; but it is not con- 
science, but fear, which makes you surrender your purse. 
Superior force in itself, therefore, cannot constitute any 
right for its being exercised, nor lay any duty on man 
to obey it. Seeing, then, that men are only bound to 
obey legitimate authority, we must find what that is. The 
basis of legitimate authority is found in mutual agree- 
ment, — an association which gives to the smaller number 
the duty of submitting to the larger. What, then, is 
necessary is “ to find that form of association which 
shall protect and defend with the force of the com- 
munity the person and property of each individual, and 
in which each remains as free as before.” In this pact, 
never formally promulgated, but everywhere tacitly re- 
ceived — 

“ the individual, by giving himself up to all, gives him- 
self up to none ; and there is no member over whom he does 
not acquire the same right as that which he gives up him- 

F.C. XVII. I 


130 


ROUSSEAU. 


self. He gains an equivalent for what he loses, and a still 
greater power to preserve what he has. If, therefore, we 
take from the social contract everything which is not essen- 
tial to it, we shall find it reduced to the following terms : 
Each of us puts his person and his power under the superior 
direction of the general will of all, am l, as a collective body, 
receives each member into that body as an indivisible part 
of the whole.” 

Eousseau does not show how this mythical contract 
could be binding on successive generations who never 
made it ; or why it could not be dissolved by the parties 
who entered into it. Eousseau himself objects to 
Grotius’s theory that a people could give themselves 
up to a despot, on the ground that in doing so they 
have no power to bind their descendants to be slaves ; 
but he forgets that this objection holds equally against 
his own theory. Jefferson, who admired so greatly the 
system, saw this difficulty practically in America, and 
consistently proposed that every nineteen years, when a 
new constituency has sprung up, a fresh constitution 
should be submitted to the people — thus making, as a 
critic remarked, the life of a state shorter than that of 
a horse. Logically the theory led to disastrous results, 
and Marat was consistent in his truculent way, when, 
from the popular premise that society was founded 
upon voluntary agreement, which was terminable on 
sufficient reason, he drew his wild conclusions in the 
time of the Eevolution, and told the famishing people 
of Paris that the conditions on which they consented 
to bear evil and refrain from violence were broken. 
“ It is suicide to starve,” he exclaimed ; “ it is mur- 
der to see one’s children starving by the crime of the 
rich. The bonds of society are now dissolved by cruel 


THE SOCIAL CONTRACT.’ 


131 


wrong; the state of nature has come hack in which 
each has a right to take what he can; and the time 
has come for the rich to make way for the poor.” To 
such dangerous conclusions were the quiet maxims of 
Jean Jacques destined to be reduced. 

Kousseau, proceeding further to develop his system, 
passes on to government, and gives a theory which 
the revolutionary leaders carried literally into legislative 
practice. The Sovereignty, being only the exercise of 
the general will, is “ inalienable,” and the Sovereign 
being the collective body of the people, cannot be 
represented except by itself. For the same reason 
that it is inalienable, it is also “ indivisible.” It 
is a mistake to divide it into legislative and exe- 
cutive power, — into powers of taxation, of justice, of 
war, of foreign and home administration. As it clearly 
belongs to the contracting parties to settle the condi- 
tions on which they agree to form a society, the people 
who submit to the law\s — which are the conditions — 
should be the authors of them. The social contract 
gives to the body politic absolute power over all its 
members ; and it is this power, directed by the general 
will, to which is attached the name of Sovereignty. 
Therefore the general will is always right; for there 
is no individual citizen who is included under it who 
does not consider himself in voting for all. In this 
way an act of sovereignty is not an agreement between 
a superior and an inferior, but a convention between 
the whole body and each of its members. 

The question now rises, What is Government 1 It is 
the intermediate body established between each subject 
and the sovereign people for their mutual correspondence, 


132 


KOUSSEAU. 


charged with the execution of the laws or with the main- 
tenance of civil and political liberty. This body charged 
with the administration is called the Prince or Magis- 
trate. As the ruling will of the Prince is nothing else 
than the general will, the power of the Prince is that of 
the public centred in him. He cannot be absolute or 
independent of the people; for if he makes his will 
more active than the Sovereign (the people), and enforces 
obedience to it, there would be two sovereigns, one by 
right, the other in fact, and then the social union would 
vanish and the body politic would be dissolved. This 
government, which executes the popular will, may be of 
different forms, provided the prince or governing body is 
the servant of the citizens. The democratical — that is, 
one in the hands of the whole or the great part of the peo- 
ple — is best suited for small states ; the aristocratical for 
moderate-sized states; the monarchical for large countries. 
“ But, in the true sense of the term, a pure democracy 
never existed in this world ; ” for it is not possible for a 
whole people to remain personally assembled to manage 
their own affairs, and the moment deputies or repre- 
sentatives are appointed, the form of the administration 
is changed. “ Did there exist a nation of gods, their 
government would doubtless be democratical ; it is too 
perfect for mankind.” Rousseau inclines towards an 
elective aristocracy of the best citizens as the best form 
of government ; although a monarchy may be best adapted 
to large countries. But if government is difficult under 
any form, what must it be under a single person And 
everybody knows what happens when a king reigns by 
substitutes ; for those who make their way to high posts 
under him are “ men of little minds and mean talents, 


'TIIE SOCIAL CONTRACT/ 


133 


who owe their preferment to the meretricious arts of 
flattery and intrigue.” “ A man of real merit is almost 
as rare in the ministry of a monarchy as a fool at the 
head of a republican government.” And yet it is found 
better, in order to avoid the turbulence and disputes 
involved in the choice of good kings by election, to run 
the risk of having, under hereditary monarchy, the 
throne filled by monsters and by idiots. 

“ Almost everything conspires to deprive a man brought 
up to command others of the principles of reason and 
justice. Great pains are taken, it is said, to teach young 
princes the art of reigning ; it does not, however, appear that 
they profit much by their education. . . . The greatest mon- 
archs are those who have never been trained to rule. It 
is a science of which those know least who have learned it 
only too much, and it is acquired better by studying obedi- 
ence than command.” 

Rousseau does not content himself with uttering 
aphorisms and formulating abstract principles, but he 
enters into minute statistical and social details to support 
his views, and to indicate what forms of government suit 
particular countries, according to their food and water 
supply, their area, their degrees of fertility, their climate. 
As in warmer climates fewer inhabitants are required 
for the purposes of production than in colder regions, it 
is more practicable there to have a despotism. The more 
thinly peopled the land and the more widely scattered 
the population, the more easy is it to control them, and 
the less easy is it for them to combine against the Govern- 
ment : while, in a denser population, men are nearer to 
each other, and it is more difficult for the ruler to usurp 
the sovereignty ; “ the chiefs deliberate in their rooms 


134 


ROUSSEAU. 


as easily as the prince in his council, the mob gathers in 
the square as soon as the troops in their quarters.” “ The 
least populated countries are in this way most suitable 
for tyranny ; wild beasts reign only in deserts.” 

It is apparent, then, that to the question, What is the 
best form of government to carry out the will of the 
people 1 there can be no decisive reply, for “ it may be 
answered in as many ways as there are possible combina- 
tions of absolute and relative circumstances of the people.” 
While, to the question whether a people is well or ill 
governed, he finds an easy answer. “ Since the end of 
political society is the preservation and prosperity of its 
members, that government is best under which the citi- 
zens increase, and that the worst under which they 
diminish.” It thus becomes a mere matter of statistics. 

The author then passes on to discuss how sovereign 
authority is to be maintained, and how its voice is to 
be uttered. 

“ The sovereign, being no other force than the legislative 
power, acts only by laws ; and the laws being only the 
authoritative acts of the general will, the sovereign cannot 
act unless the people be assembled. ‘ The people assemble ! ’ 
you will say, ‘wliat a chimera!’ It is indeed chimerical 
at present, although it was not considered so two thousand 
years ago. By what has been done before, however, we may 
judge of what may be done again.” 

He points out how the Roman comitia , the little 
republics of Greece, and even monarchical Macedonia, 
had their popular assemblies ; and, as Mr Morley has 
remarked, Rousseau might have instanced such little 
states familiar to him as Uri and Appenzell, where the 
sovereign people, each in his own person, exercises both 
the duties of legislation and choice of executive. “ It 


‘THE SOCIAL CONTRACT/ 


135 


is necessary that the people should have fixed and 
periodical meetings, which nothing can abolish or pro- 
rogue, so that the people should, on a certain day, 
be legally summoned without express statute being- 
required for the formal convocation.” But even if this 
mode were best, how is it practicable? It may suit a 
town or a very tiny Swiss canton, or, better still, a minute 
republic like San Marino, and is partly realised in the 
village communes which linger in Russia to-day; but 
how can it work in a larger state, with many cities within 
its bounds ? Rousseau’s reply is simple, — so much the 
worse for the large states. “ It is an objection of no 
force against one who maintains the exclusive propriety 
of small ones : besides, if the state be kept within due 
bounds, there remains the resource of not allowing the 
existence of a capital, but removing the seat of govern- 
ment from one town to another, and assembling the 
states of the country in each alternately.” In all this, 
it will be seen, he reasons on the basis of his population 
of 10,000, as in the ideal republic of Plato; he still 
thinks of his native Geneva, with its short distances, its 
small population, its simple administration. But as a 
system for general application, it is of course utterly 
unworkable ; and even on the principles of federation, 
it could only, to a very limited extent, be carried into 
practice. The Girondists thought of federalising France, 
— in this probably following the example of America 
rather than the doctrine of Rousseau, — but in their effort 
they were opposed by the Jacobins. Only once was his 
plan tried, and that only in municipal administration, 
when Danton, in 1790, 1 promoted a scheme for the 
sections to sit permanently, the vote to be taken day 
1 Morley’s Rousseau, ii. 164. 


136 


ROUSSEAU. 


by day, and action to follow tlieir decrees. But it is 
easy to see that the speculation as to citizens gathering 
at a common meeting to legislate, is as impracticable as 
Aristotle’s speculation as to whether citizens of a state 
should dine at a common table. Rousseau considered 
that everything connected with government should be 
done by the direct action of citizens, who should pass 
the laws of the state, and work for its preservation. 

i( When the service of the public ceases to be the principal 
concern of the citizens, and they would rather discharge it 
by their purses than their persons, the state is already far on 
the road to ruin. When they should march to fight, they 
pay troops to fight for them and stay a*: home; when they 
should go to council, they send deputies and stay at home: 
thus, in consequence of their indolence and wealth, they in 
the end employ soldiers to enslave their country, and repre- 
sentatives to sell it. So soon as a citizen says, What are 
state affairs to me? the state may be given up for lost.” 

Ignoring the fact that political representation on the 
part of the people is the result of public spirit, he insists 
that “ the want of public spirit and the influence of pri- 
vate interest have given rise to the method of assembling 
the people by deputies.” He forgets that in most coun- 
tries the people could not relinquish, for they had never 
possessed, this power of governing and administrating 
for themselves, and the liberty of representation has 
only been gained by arduous efforts, by feats of moral 
and physical force throughout the course of centuries. 
As the sovereignty cannot be represented or alienated 
— for it consists of the public will — Rousseau maintains 
that “ the deputies are only commissioners, not repre- 
sentatives, and every law not confirmed by the people 
in person is null and void.” 


‘ THE SOCIAL CONTRACT/ 


137 


With the exception of the primitive contract which 
demands unanimous consent, the determination of the 
majority on every question, we are told, is always bind- 
ing upon the rest. When a law is proposed in the 
assembly of the people, they are not asked severally 
whether they approve of the proposal or not, hut whether 
it is conformable or not to the general will, each person 
giving his vote on this point, and by counting the votes 
the declaration of the general will is inferred from the 
majority. Here follows a characteristic instance of 
Rousseau’s ingenuity in making a case which seems to 
confute his theory support it : “ When a law passes 
contrary to my own opinion, it only proves that I was 
mistaken in what I believed to be the public will ; so 
that, if my particular advice had been followed, it 
would have been contrary to my will, which, as a citizen, 
is the same as the general, and in that case I should 
not have been free.” In his system he seeks rather 
political equality than social equality, while recognising 
the truth that social prosperity can only progress by 
distribution of wealth amongst as many as possible, — as 
Washington, on abolishing the custom of primogeniture 
in Virginia, when warned that there would be no car- 
riages-and-four, replied that there would be all the more 
carriages-and-two. Rousseau, while insisting on liberty 
and equality as the end of all legislation, qualifies the 
terms : “ By equality we do not mean that all individ- 
uals shall have the same degree of wealth and power, 
but only, with respect to the former, that no citizen 
shall be rich enough to buy another, and that none shall 
be so poor as to be obliged to sell himself.” 

From such a writer we naturally expect a strong de- 


138 


ROUSSEAU. 


nunciation of slavery, especially as the savage races, 
according to him, are nearer perfection than the civilised 
races that enslave them. Montesquieu had consistently 
spoken of slavery as immoral and unchristian. But this 
we do not find in Bousseau ; on the contrary, he sees 
that the Greeks had great political freedom, because they 
had slaves to do their work, and had therefore leisure 
to assemble under the sunny sky to discuss and pass 
laws instead of sending mere deputies. “ What ! can 
liberty only be maintained by aid of servitude? Per- 
haps. The two extremes meet, and such is one of the 
inconveniences of civil society, that we can only procure 
liberty at the expense of another. You modern people 
have no slaves, but you are slaves yourselves, and pay 
for their liberty by your own.” It is strange that this is 
all, with exception of a general argument against a people 
being enslaved by a tyrant, that the apostle of liberty 
has to say ; but it is not more strange than that other 
writers who have furthered the political freedom of 
the people said nothing in condemnation of slavery. 
Prom the days when Sir John Hawkins began the 
English trade in negroes, in that ship gravely chris- 
tened “ The Jesus,” people of all shades of opinion 
shared this political blindness. Locke maintained equal 
rights of men, and drew up the constitution for Caro- 
lina, investing free men with authority over negroes. 
Whitfield and the Society for the Propagation of Chris- 
tian Knowledge had property in slaves; John Newton 
owns that he never had such hours of sweet divine 
communion as during his slave voyages to Guinea. 
Washington, having freed his country, bequeathed his 
slaves to his wife ; St Pierre, in his idyllic story, repre- 


‘THE SOCIAL CONTRACT.’ 


139 


sents Paul and Virginia served by faithful slaves in 
their earthly paradise. It is not remarkable, then, that 
Rousseau should not do what the stanchest maintainers 
of liberty in France, England, and America left undone. 
The claims of consistent humanity, however, were at 
last uttered in France by Abbe Raynal in his work 
on the Indies, in 1772, with noble persistency; by 
Condorcet, who demanded that negroes and Indians 
should be brought within the pale of brotherhood ; but 
only when the terrible insurrection of the negroes in St 
Domingo, in 1791, took place, were even revolutionists 
convinced that the “ rights of man ” could possibly be- 
long to blacks. 

We must now refer to Rousseau’s views on political 
religion, which, in their very inconsistency, are so con- 
sistent with his own practice, and which were destined 
to be carried into action in the swiftly coming revolution. 
He passes in review the social influence of various reli- 
gions ; he sees in Roman Catholicism a mere religion of 
priests, which can only dissolve society, and which, in 
its effort to make devotees, unmakes citizens. Christi- 
anity, in its original form, is also prejudicial to the state. 
It is a spiritual, anti-social religion — for every true 
Christian is bound to neglect the earth and prepare for 
heaven. If the country prosper, he dares not rejoice, 
lest he be proud ; if it decline, he dares not repine, but 
must see the hand of Providence that humbles : he must 
not resist wrong, must not speak evil of dignities, and 
must submit to the tyrant as to the chastening rod of God. 
In all this Rousseau does not mean to discredit Christi- 
anity in saying it was unsuited to society, for he regarded 
the social state as an evil, though now it has become a 


140 


ROUSSEAU. 


necessity : he simply considered consistent Christianity 
as inconsistent with political existence. It is all-import- 
ant, he urges, that the citizen should he of a religion 
which inspires him with a regard for his social duties, 
and the community is concerned in what he believes 
only in so far as relates to morals and the obligation 
under which he lies to his fellow-citizens. Beyond this 
the individual may believe what he chooses without the 
sovereign being entitled to interfere; for, “having no 
jurisdiction in the other world, it is nothing to the sov- 
ereign -what becomes of the citizens in a future state, 
provided they discharge their duties in the present.” 
Accordingly, there should be a common political pro- 
fession of faith, the articles of which the sovereign 
must fix, not precisely as dogmas of religion, but as 
sentiments of sociability, without which it is impos- 
sible to be a good citizen or a good subject. “With- 
out being compelled to adopt these sentiments, any one 
may be banished from the society, not 'as impious, but 
as unsociable, as incapable of having a sincere regard for 
justice, and of sacrificing his life to his duty if required.” 
Again, should any one, after having made a public pro- 
fession of such sentiments, betray his disbelief of them 
by his conduct, 

“ he may fairly be punished with death for having committed 
the greatest of all crimes, — he has lied in the face of the laws. 
The tenets of political religion should be few and simple ; 
they should be laid down with precision and without com- 
ment. The existence of a Deity, powerful, intelligent, benef- 
icent, prescient, and provident ; a future state, the reward of 
the righteous, the punishment of the wicked, the sacred 
nature of the social contract and of the laws, — these should 
be its positive tenets. As to negative dogmas, I limit 


* THE SOCIAL CONTRACT.’ 


141 


them, to one, — it is intolerance. Those who affect to 
make a distinction between civil and religious intolerance 
are in my opinion mistaken. These two intolerances are 
inseparable. It is impossible to live in peace with those 
whom we firmly believe devoted to damnation ; to love 
them would be to hate God who punishes them. It is 
therefore absolutely necessary for us either to torment or 
to convert them. Wherever theological intolerance is ad- 
mitted, it is impossible that it should not have some civil 
effect ; and so soon as it has, the sovereign is no longer sov- 
ereign even in secular matters ; the priests become the real 
masters, and kings are only their officers. . . . Whoever dares 
to say, Beyond the Church there is no salvation , ought to be 
chased from the State.” 

“With this dictum, which would logically result in the 
persecution of the whole Catholic Church on the ground 
that it is religiously bound to persecute, the ‘Social 
Contract ’ closes, appropriately ending in a shrill cry of 
political fanaticism, destined to be echoed before many 
years had fled. ' If this doctrine had been pushed to 
its natural conclusion, the persecution the writer forbids 
to the Church must have been remorseless when carried 
out by the State on his principle : the Catholics would 
have been killed because they held “ there was no sal- 
vation beyond the Church ; ” the whole circle of philo- 
sophers would have been killed who denied a God or 
doubted a future state; and the only citizens spared would 
have been cowards who concealed their own opinions, or 
fanatics who punished the opinions of others. Political 
bigotry is thus far more deadly, because far more power- 
ful, than religious intolerance; and more preposterous 
than for the priests to make belief in the Trinity an 
article of salvation, was it for politicians to make re- 


142 


ROUSSEAU. 


publican belief in the “ social contract ” an article of 
life and death. Yet elsewhere, whatever the con- 
sistency may be, Rousseau had written , 1 “ No true 
believer can be a persecutor. If I were a magistrate, 
and the law inflicted death on atheists, I should begin 
to put it iuto execution by burning the first man who 
should accuse or persecute another.” It would have 
been infinitely wiser if he had thought of the plan of 
Charles Fox, who declared in Parliament that “ it was 
his wish to extirpate heresy by fire, — not, however, by 
burning the victims, but by burning the noxious Acts.” 

It must, of course, be remembered that Rousseau was 
not singular in his theoretical intolerance, and many 
calm writers who had shared his political principles 
shared also his repressive views. In England, for in- 
stance, Hobbes long before had taught in the ‘Levia- 
than 1 a uniformity of faith as strict as Jean Jacques, 
and said that “the right of judging what doctrines are 
useful for the conservation of peace, and what ought 
to be publicly taught, belongs inseparably to the civil 
power;” but then, what was somewhat cynical Eras- 
tianism in Hobbes was keen fanaticism in Rousseau. 
Locke himself, advocate though he Avas for toleration, 
was as decided as Edmund Burke, who maintained that 
“ atheists ought not to be tolerated, as denying the very 
principles in virtue of which human relations are pos- 
sible.” When we remember that the French Parliament 
and Church deemed Rousseau’s own religious and politi- 
cal views dangerous to society, on his own grounds they 
were thoroughly justified in banishing him, and every 
act of persecution could be vindicated on his own terms. 

1 La Nouvelle Heloise, Let. 141. 


143 


‘THE SOCIAL CONTRACT.’ 

With terrible effect, his doctrine was afterwards to he 
acted upon by a powerful party. In 1793, the section 
headed by Eobespierre denounced the atheistic Hebertists 
who had desecrated churches and set up for worship the 
Goddess of Eeason ; and they accused Hebert, Chau- 
niette, and Anacharsis Clootz of conspiring “to destroy all 
notion of divinity, and to base the government of France 
on atheism,” for which crime they were guillotined. 

The argument of Kousseau in this book is, like that 
of so many of his school, entirely conducted in the a 
priori method. 1 He laid down certain axioms, sup- 
posed an abstract man with imaginary rights based on 
an imaginary compact, and, irrespective of all histori- 
cal facts, deduced an ideal political system, which 
never can be realised. It is admirable in symmetry; 
it is fascinating in its logical simplicity. The rights 
insisted upon are all “ based on nature ; ” they are all 
found in “the nature of things phrases which, 
however imposing, engender suspicion, and make one 
as sceptical as Lord Ellenborough, who, on hearing an 
advocate protesting of a principle being written in 
the “ book of nature,” stopped him, and gravely asked, 
“ On what page ?” Yet it was these general formulas 
which were so greedily adopted by the French followers 
of Eousseau, and which were applauded in the streets 
of Paris and in the Convention. In fanatical accordance 
with metaphysical conceptions, and in utter ignorance of 
human nature, the National Assembly tried to form a 
Constitution, not for Frenchmen but for abstract men. 
So captivating were its easy solutions of social problems, 
that the ‘ Social Contract ’ became the gospel of the revo- 
1 H. Taine : Ancien Regime, B. lit. ch. iv. 


144 


IiOUSSEAU. 


lutioiiary era. Men like Marat, in 1788, recited it in the 
streets of Paris, while enthusiastic crowds applauded ; at 
meetings it was quoted and paraphrased by every De- 
mosthenes of the cabaret ; young lawyers espoused the 
ideal polity of this publicist of the future ; soldiers read 
it in their barracks ; mechanics regarded it as the char- 
ter of their order ; artists and artisans, clergy, journal- 
ists, were enraptured by its inflamed logic. 

These democratic opinions, when uttered by Eousseau, 
became fashionable in the drawing-rooms before they 
became popular in the streets ; nobles who in their 
hearts despised both peasantry and bourgeoisie took upon 
their lips the current phrases of brotherhood and equality, 
though they all the while would heartily have sympa- 
thised with Mirabeau, who, on returning from voting 
for the abolition of titles of nobility, took his servant by 
the ear, and bawled with his big voice, — “ .Look you, 
fellow; I trust that to you at least 1 shall always be 
monsieur le comte. ” Phrases which sounded piquant 
and daring from the aristocracy of Prance, sounded 
very differently, however, when rudely repeated, thirty 
years later, by the orators of the mob, who were not 
satisfied until they had levelled all ranks, and until, 
having the king himself in their power, they could 
truly say, “Formerly there were twenty -six million 
subjects and one master; now there are twenty -six 
million kings and one subject.” 

Napoleon went so far as to say that, without Rous- 
seau, there would have been no Revolution. It is clear 
now, however, that for more than half a century before 
1789 there were signs of political unrest which tended 
to a revolutionary crisis. D’Argenson, in 1752, had 


f THE SOCIAL CONTRACT/ 


145 


foretold a coming revolt; Voltaire, in 1764, we find 
writing to M de Chauvelin, “ Everything I see shows 
the seed of revolution which will infallibly come : young 
people are lucky ; they will see fine things.” Menaces 
broke forth from the masses, impatient of suffering, year 
after year. There were riots in the provinces ; there were 
fierce protests in local parliaments ; there were outrages 
innumerable by men whom rage and poverty had rendered 
desperate. Revolt had been in the air for long years, 
and soon the spirit of equality breathed not merely 
among angry groups in the cabarets, in pamphlets, and 
in the Encyclopedia, but in literature of all classes, — 
alike in Ravnal’s ‘ History of the Indies,’ in Beaumar- 
chais’s ‘Figaro,’ in St Pierre’s pastorals, in D’Holbach’s 
‘ System of Nature.’ But certainly none had so great 
an influence as Rousseau in furthering the national 
insurrection and in shaping its doctrines. Encyclo- 
pedists incited the public mind to see the injustice 
of established institutions, and rendered men impatient 
of their yoke ; but they did not appeal, like Rousseau, 
to popular passion. Voltaire sought to emancipate so- 
ciety from traditional opinions, and to slay intolerance 
by showing its folly ; but he did not, like Rousseau, 
kindle the people’s enthusiasm. In fact, though liberal 
enough in political and religious opinion, Voltaire was 
conservative in society and a would-be aristocrat, with 
a contemptuous kindliness for the masses. “ They are 
stupid and barbarous,” he said ; “ they are oxen who 
need only a goad, the yoke, and some hay.” Nor did 
the seigneur of Ferney love demagogues. “Preach 
virtue to the lower orders ; where the populace meddle 
with reasoning they are lost.” No wonder that Rousseau 
F.C. XVII. K 


146 


ROUSSEAU. 


— a prophet who loved the people and desired their 
salvation — was honoured by democrats, who adopted 
his doctrine. In his own words, Robespierre proclaimed, 
“ The sovereignty resides in the people ; it is one, indi- 
visible, unprescriptible, and inalienable.” In 1794, 
the Jacobins would fain have reconstituted society on 
the ruins of the ancien regime , and given to the people 
the perfect republic of Rousseau. But while thinking 
to legislate for twenty-six millions with the ease of a 
Lycurgus for a few Spartans, and with the success of 
Calvin in Geneva, they forgot that a new constitution 
needed a new people; they forgot that it was impos- 
sible to alter by statute immemorial customs, or to 
uproot the traditions and feelings of centuries. Yet 
Rousseau was more cautious than his admirers. He has 
himself shown that laws must be made to suit the people, 
the climate, the country, and the age, else they will injure 
the nation, or fail as utterly as the premature reforms of 
Peter the Great in Russia. Few countries, he held, were 
able to receive a brand-new system of laws, for they 
must have no customs too deeply rooted ; they “ must 
have the consistency of an old nation and the docility 
of a new one.” Then he adds words which seem an un- 
conscious prophecy, — “not of private interpretation:” — 

“ There is still one country in Europe capable of receiving 
laws. That is the island of Coisica. The valour and con- 
stancy with which this brave people recovered and have 
defended their liberty ought to incite some wise men to 
teach them how to preserve it. I cannot help surmising 
that this little island will one day or other be the astonish- 
ment of Europe.” 

These words of course refer to the recent struggle 


‘THE SOCIAL CONTRACT.’ 


147 


under General Paoli. Pour years afterwards, in 1765, 
Rousseau was asked by Corsican leaders who remembered 
these words to form a constitution for the island ; and 
it is curious to think how different would have been the 
political aspect of Europe to-day had the Due de Choiseul, 
instead of adding Corsica to Prance in 1768, allowed 
the liberal constitution of Rousseau to be established in 
the island. Buonaparte would have possibly lived on ob- 
scurely in his little republic, and certainly never served 
in a French army. But instead of France giving a 
constitution to Corsica, a Corsican was one day to give 
a code to Prance. 

George Sand has said that the * Social Contract ’ is no 
more responsible for the excesses of the Revolution than 
the Gospel is for the massacre of St Bartholomew ; and 
that is true, so far as direct intention went. But the 
leaders of the Revolution were able to draw their con- 
clusions logically from Rousseau, which the leaders of 
the massacre certainly could not do from the Gospel. 
He had urged that when an individual enters into 
society, he surrenders his rights to the control of the 
state of which he himself is a part. In a small state of 
ten thousand members, each has only a ten-thousandth 
part of the authority, although even that is submitted to 
the rest. Accordingly, in a country like Prance, the 
citizen who had given himself to the state had only a 
twenty-six millionth part of authority in the community; 
whence it follows, as Rousseau acknowledged, that as the 
state increases individual liberty diminishes. It is not 
wonderful, then, that Robespierre and St Just, seeing 
that the state is practically everything and the individual 
citizen nothing, held that the republic could dictate to 


148 


ROUSSEAU. 


republicans wliat it thought best, in actions and opinions, 
for the public good . 1 “ Every individual who opposes 
himself to the general will ought to be restrained by the 
whole body, which signifies nothing else than that they 
force him to be free.” In this way we arrive at that 
password of those who coerced the man for the good of 
the state, — “ liberty, equality, and fraternity — or death.” 
No one would have abhorred such a conclusion, and 
condemned the existence of the Committee of Public 
Safety, or the Revolutionary tribunal, in the Reign of 
Terror, more than Jean Jacques. In his discourse on 
Political Economy, he had said that the idea that “ it is 
permitted to a Government to sacrifice one innocent man 
for the safety of the multitude, I hold to be the most 
execrable maxim that ever tyrant invented ;” and else- 
where he wrote, “ The blood of one single man is more 
precious than the liberty of the whole human race.” 
It is easy to conclude that, had he lived in the Revolu- 
tionary time, he would not have escaped a fate which 
befell his most uncompromising followers, Robespierre 
and St Just . 2 Whatever its consequences, the people 
— proud of that title of “citizens” which Rousseau 


1 St Marc Girardin’s Rousseau, ii. 384. 

2 The effect of Rousseau’s political doctrines was not confined to 
France, and they fascinated some at least of the founders of the 
United States, especially Jefferson. The framers of the Declaration 
of Independence embodied the very principles which he maintained : 
“ We hold these truths to be self-evident, — that all men are created 
equal; that they are endowed by the Creator with inalienable rights; 
that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” 
These words, drawn from the principles of French jurists and poli- 
ticians, after being embodied in the American Constitution, came 
back to France with a ‘prestige and realised significance. — See Maine's 
Ancient Law, p. 94. 


* THE SOCIAL CONTRACT/ 


149 


had claimed for them — were soon eager to accept his 
doctrine, not perceiving that nothing is so irrational 
as a constitution founded on reasoning. Frederick the 
Great was clearer-sighted when, on reading D’Holbach’s 
‘ System of Nature,’ he exclaimed, “ If I had a province 
to punish, I would give it to philosophers to govern.” 


150 


CHAPTER IX. 

‘EMILE, OR EDUCATION.* 

That Rousseau should write a book on education struck 
many with amused astonishment. The man who had 
placed his own children in a foundling hospital was the 
last whom one would expect to discourse on the best 
manner of training the young ; and yet the extraordinary 
observation of child-life which 1 Emile ’ displays could 
only come, as he said himself, from one who loved 
children. “ If I have made any progress in the know- 
ledge of the human heart, it is owing to the pleasure 
I have experienced in seeing and observing children.” 
Indeed it was the thoughts with which his own deficiency 
in regard to his children filled him, which, he asserts, 
made him think out his treatise on education. For years 
he had been building up his educational theories, which 
were only a development of his favourite views on society, 
that man is naturally good, and that institutions have 
made him bad, and that he must be set free from the 
prejudices and conventions of society. These notions 
run through all his writings, especially through what 
he calls his “three principal works” — the two Dis- 
c> uirses and ‘ Emile 5 — “ which books are inseparable, 


' EMILE.’ 


151 


and form together one whole.” Madame d’Epinay 
was a little addicted to educational plans, and had 
written out letters to her son, which Rousseau, with 
his unpleasant candour, said were “ excellent, madame, 
hut of no use.” One day she was talking upon the 
manner in which her tutor trained her son. “It is a 
difficult thing,” said she, “ to educate a child.” “ I 
think so indeed, madame,” replied' Rousseau; “it is 
because fathers and mothers are not made by nature to 
educate — nor children to be educated.” And as she 
looked astonished at his paradox, he explained that in 
a state of nature the human being has only a few 
physical wants to be provided for, and therefore the 
education of the savage takes place without interference 
from others, while our artificial state is not based upon 
nature, but founded on absurd and contradictory con- 
ventions. “ To facilitate your work of education,” said 
Jean Jacques, calmly, in his uncompromising way, “you 
must begin by remoulding society.” Accordingly, in 
* Emile ’ he himself begins to remould society by mould- 
ing the individual. 

When Rousseau wrote there was little home-training 
by parents, except among the bourgeoisie ; education was 
left in the hands of tutors in families, or committed to 
priests at colleges. Many persons in France about 1762, 
When 1 Emile ’ appeared, were already becoming interested 
in education. The philosophers had said too much 
against priests for society to trust them implicitly. The 
Jesuits, the great educationalists of Europe, were grow- 
ing into disfavour ; but as fathers did not trouble them- 
selves much about the matter, it was left to clever women 
like Madame d’Epinay or Madame de Grafigny to form 


152 


KOUSSEAU. 


plans for education — plans which were sometimes amus- 
ing in their sonorous maxims, and their utter ignorance 
of childhood. Now, however, Rousseau lifted up his 
voice against the pedantic follies of existing modes of 
training ; hut, unlike Locke, who, in his ‘ Thoughts on 
Education,’ had long ago sought to form a “ young 
gentleman,” his purpose was to form a “ man.” 

It must be owned that 1 Emile ’ is not a work to he read 
through with pleasure : some may even call it wellnigh 
intolerable, except to those who study it as an epoch- 
making hook, powerful in influencing religious, politi- 
cal, and social opinion in an important age, and which, 
amidst fatiguing digressions and endless details, contains 
those wise lessons on education which the wisest educa- 
tionalists were long afterwards reverently to adopt. It 
is enough of a story to spoil it as a treatise, and far more 
than enough of a treatise to spoil it as a story. The 
author has elsewhere remarked : “ It is well known that 
every man who lays down general maxims intends them 
to bind every one but himself.” According to this rule, 
in 1 Emile 5 there are admirable lessons for the nursery 
from one who had abandoned his own children ; elo- 
quent laudations of married life by one who was living 
in concubinage with a stupid servant-woman ; scornful 
vituperations of the rich and great by one who had 
received unbounded kindness from persons of wealth 
and rank ; and patient studies in tuition by one who 
had utterly failed as a teacher. 

Before he enters upon his work, Rousseau pleads with 
all his eloquent persuasiveness in favour of a reformation 
of the home-life of French society. He saw around him, 
amongst those who spent their time in fashion, luxury, 


‘ EMILE.’ 


153 


and pleasure, no calm, simple domesticity. Children 
were sent to be nursed in the country, in order that the 
lady might he free to go through her ceaseless round of 
amusements. They were never trained and tended by 
father or mother, but sent away to the charge of priests 
in colleges or to convents. He points out to parents the 
folly and injustice of a proceeding which intrusts chil- 
dren in the most fragile moment of life to peasant- 
women, who, to attend to their work, must dispose 
somehow of the poor infants, and bind them in hateful 
and cramping bandages : — 

u Gentle mothers who, disembarrassed of your infants, 
give yourselves up gaily to the amusements of the town, 
do you know meanwhile what treatment the infant in its 
swaddling-bands receives in the village ? At the least in- 
terruption, it is hung up on a nail like a bundle of rags; 
and while the nurse coolly attends to her own concerns, the 
poor babe remains in a state of crucifixion. Children dis- 
covered in this situation are found quite purple in the face 
from the compression of the breast hindering the circulation 
of the blood, which mounts to the head : and the infant is 
believed to be comfortable because it is too weak to cry. I 
do not know how many hours a child can remain in this con- 
dition, but I doubt if it can be very long without dying. 
You see here one of the conveniences of swaddling.” 1 

What, then, should be done? — “Mothers must nurse 
their own children.” This is the duty he inculcates with 
all his influence, and which he enforced in his works, 
his conversation, and his letters, as being the source 
of domestic happiness and virtue. Others before him, 

1 Richardson, in ‘Pamela’ (second part), had already pleaded for 
mothers nursing their own children, and had condemned this swad- 
dling in curiously similar terms. 


154 


KOUSSEAU. 


Morelly and Buffon, had taught the same maternal duty, 
hut all without effect ; while by his pleading society was 
converted. What was once deemed vulgar now became 
the mode , because Jean Jacques had pronounced it right. 
As Buffon said, “We say the same things, and nobody 
heeds ; but when Bousseau speaks, every one listens and 
obeys.” Fashionable ladies began to exercise these esti- 
mable nursery duties in an ostentatious public way, and 
even endangered the lives of the poor children by per- 
forming them as they hurried to and from the dissipa- 
tions of society. 

“ When mothers deign to nurse their infants, morals will 
reform themselves, — the feelings of nature will awaken in all 
hearts. The attraction of domestic life is the best antidote 
to bad morals. The stir of children, which some think 
troublesome, will become agreeable; it renders the father 
and mother more necessary, more dear to each other; it 
binds closer the conjugal bond. Let once wives become 
mothers, and soon men will become fathers and husbands.” 

He enforces powerfully on parents the neglected duty of 
training their children and developing their affections, 
instead of leaving them in the hands of servants, or 
in the charge of tutors, to be taught only what is 
useless, and equipped for the world with only what is 
vicious. 

He now proceeds to set forth the true mode of educa- 
tion; a system which, by allowing nature to develop 
without restraint, and which, without implanting pre- 
judices and artificial faults, enables the child to grow 
into a perfect citizen. Every child is born good, 
and it is only evil education which makes him bad. 
“ In coming from my hands, my pupil will be neither 


‘ EMILE.’ 


155 


a magistrate, nor a soldier, nor a priest; lie will be a 
man equal to all the changes of fortune.” He sup- 
poses himself the guardian of “ Emile,” an orphan, well 
born and healthy, who is never to receive medicine, 
even when ill, for “ physic is more pernicious than the 
diseases it pretends to cure.” We are told what is the 
proper sort of nurse, the proper condition of the milk, 
when to wean the infant, and what to give it. The 
child’s education begins at once, before he can speak, 
and when he can barely think. He is to be accustomed 
to the sight of ugly objects by being shown hideous 
masks, and taught to overcome fear by having pistols 
hred near his ear. He has no silver bells to play with, 
but poppy-heads with the rattling grains inside or little 
branches with leaves on them, lest he should acquire a 
taste for luxury from his birth ; and he has no coral for 
his gums, but only bits of hard crust. He is to be 
bathed in ice-cold water, and, when able to walk, to go 
barefooted. He should learn to bear pain ; and if he 
falls or cuts his finger, it is a mistake to rush to his as- 
sistance. “ The evil is done, and he must bear it ; ” and 
it is better that he should hurt himself than never leam 
to suffer and to be brave. Though we are told “ tears 
are the prayers of the infant,” he is not to get what he 
cries for, for he is made a tyrant when he gets what he 
wants, and miserable when he cannot. To reason with 
a child is a practice which Rousseau considers utterly 
absurd, for if children can reason, we do not need to 
educate them at all. By talking to them in a language 
they do not understand, we make them satisfied with 
words ; and while we fancy we have prevailed by rational 
motives, they have in reality been moved by such mo- 


156 


ROUSSEAU. 


lives as fear, or greed, or vanity, with, which we have 
been obliged to enforce our arguments. 

“ Here is a formula to which all lessons in morality which 
are given to children may be reduced. Master. — ‘ It is not 
right to do that.’ Child. — ‘ Why is it not right ? 5 Master. 
— ‘ Because it is wrong.’ Child. — ‘ Wrong ? what is that ? ’ 
Master. — ‘ That which is forbidden to you.’ Child. — ‘ Why 
is it wrong to do what is forbidden ?’ Master. — ‘You will 
be punished for disobeying.’ Child. — ‘ I shall manage that 
no one knows it.’ Master. — ‘ You will be watched.’ Child. 
— ‘ I will hide myself.’ Master. — ‘ They will ask you.’ 
Child. — ‘ I will tell a lie.’ Master. — ‘ You must not tell 
a lie,’ Child. — ‘ Why may I not tell a lie ? ’ Master. — 
‘ Because it is wrong,’ &c. Here is the inevitable circle ; get 
out of it if you can. The child does not know what to make 
of you. . . . Nature requires children to be children before 
being men. ... I would as soon have a child be five feet 
high, as have it exercise judgment at ten years old.” 

The child should be allowed to follow its own in- 
clinations, for these are natural to him, and, therefore, 
always right. It is only when he exacts the services of 
others that he should be denied at all; and what is 
intended to be granted should be given as if at our 
pleasure alone, not in fulfilment of the child’s demands. 
The word no should be a wall of brass against which, 
after the child has tried his strength half-a-dozen times, 
he will never try again. Children should be kept from 
using polite phrases, because they become more exacting, 
by fancying they will get what they ask for most civilly. 
They should not say “ if you please,” for that is only a 
polite way of arrogantly saying “ it pleases me.” Mean- 
while the boy’s mind should be kept inactive as long 
as possible, while his body and senses should be de- 


* EMILE.’ 


157 


veloped. In order to hinder the rise of evil, we must 
not be too hasty in instilling good, for that requires the 
mind to he enlightened by reason. “ Look upon every 
delay as an advantage ; let childhood ripen in children. 
Do not therefore alarm yourself at this seeming idleness. 
What would you say of a man who, in order to make the 
most of life, resolved never to go to sleep 1 Y ou would 
say the man is mad : in order to escape sleep, he has- 
tens towards death. It is the same here : childhood is 
the sleep of reason.” 

' The only passion natural to man is self-love — a passion 
good in itself, which only becomes bad by misapplica- 
tion. Our first duties are towards ourselves; our first 
feelings centre on our own persons. Accordingly, the 
first notion of justice is not what we owe to others, but 
what others owe to us ; and the serious and common 
error is that of teaching children their duties before they 
learn their rights. Such a right is that of property ; and 
as it is best to teach by examples, Rousseau shows how 
he would give a boy a conception of the right of pro- 
perty — the last, judging from his early works, which we 
should have expected him to inculcate. Emile digs a plot 
of ground, where he sows some beans ; he waters them, 
he watches them growing with intense delight. He is 
taught that they belong to him by devoting his time and 
his trouble to them ; so that in the ground there is part 
of himself, which he has a right to insist on as his own. 
One fine morning, however, he goes to water his beans, 
and finds that they have been uprooted by the gardener, 
who is thereupon summoned, and accused of having done 
this injury. The gardener then accuses Emile in turn of 
spoiling his ground, and of having destroyed the melons 


158 


ROUSSEAU. 


which he had sown in order to make way for the beans. 
“ Do you often lose your melons 1 ” asks Emile, and the 
man replies that he is not accustomed to visits of heed- 
less young gentlemen like him, — that everybody respects 
another’s labours, and nobody meddles with other people’s 
gardens. The gardener, however, grants him a little cor- 
ner of the garden ; — “ but, mind you,” he adds, “ I’ll 
pluck up your beans if you meddle with my melons.” 
In this way property is traced to its first occupier, and 
the child learns by experience. It is difficult to see why 
this lesson could not have been given as effectively by 
the explanation of the gardener, with great saving of 
time, trouble, beans, and melons. Rousseau, however, 
insists upon the superiority of example over precept. 
That the course is painfully elaborate — that the little 
scenes carefully prepared may totally fail, the little ruses 
be easily detected, and the lad rendered permanently 
distrustful, — are arguments which have no weight with 
the author. 

If a heedless boy breaks anything he comes near, 
we are not to be vexed, but put everything breakable 
beyond his reach : if he breaks the furniture, let him 
feel the want of it ; if he breaks the window, let the 
wind blow through the broken panes day and night; 
and if he catches cold, it is better to have a cold than 
to remain a fool. Punishment should never be inflicted 
as punishment, for he has no notion of moral right and 
wrong; but the boy should suffer the natural conse- 
quences of his folly and passion. If he tells lies, do 
not chastise him, but let him feel the inconveniences of 
so doing, by not believing him even when he tells the 
truth, and by his being thought guilty even when he is 


4 EMILE.’ 


159 


innocent. So with regard to virtue, the child should not 
be taught by lessons what is right, but let him see good 
actions done by others ; for although at his age imitative 
virtue is little but aping, yet children should be accus- 
tomed to acts of which we wish them to acquire the 
habit, till they are capable of doing them from prin- 
ciple. Rousseau will not have children taught to read 
until twelve years old, for “reading is the scourge of 
children,” and the abuse of reading is the destruction 
of knowledge; he should rather be able to draw, and 
swim, and run, and jump. “Yet I am almost certain 
that Emile will know perfectly well how to read and 
write before ten, because I give myself very little care 
whether he learn it or not before he is fifteen.” “ Since 
he must read something, the first book shall be 4 Robin- 
son Crusoe,’ which affords a complete treasury of natural 
education,” and where he learns the means of self-pre- 
servation and the dignity of labour. His attention 
should be directed to natural phenomena, and his curi- 
osity will be soon awakened ; but in order that this 
curiosity may be kept alive, we should not be too urgent 
to satisfy it. Put questions adapted to his capacity, and 
leave him to solve them, and let him learn nothing by 
rote or by mere words; for. we acquire clearer notions 
of things we learn for ourselves than of those we are 
taught by others. Geography should be taught neither 
by maps nor globes, but by seeing objects themselves. 
Take him, for example, to see the rising sun, and then 
the setting sun, and let him reflect upon the different 
positions; let him make his own maps by observing 
the country ; let him make his own instruments and 
his tools, and he will become ingenious. “ Instead of 


160 


ROUSSEAU. 


gluing a boy to his books, employ him in a workshop : 
his hands will work to the benefit of his mind, and 
he will become a philosopher when he believes him- 
self only a workman.” “What is the use of that 1 ?” 
must be the sacred phrase between pupil and tutor, 
and facts will become impressed on his meinor}^ as he 
discovers that it is his interest to know them. Astron- 
omy is taught to Emile in this way. He and his tutor 
were observing the position of the forest north of Mont- 
morency, when he puts the “ sacred phrase,” “ What is 
the use of doing this 1 ” The answer is given next day 
by the conscientious tutor going out with Emile, and 
purposely losing his way in the forest till the boy is 
frightened, and both are tired and hungry by a whole 
day’s pretended futile efforts to find the road. At last, 
by the suggestion of the tutor, the boy is made to find 
out for himself, by the direction of the shadow of the 
sun, where they are, and where their home lay — the other 
side of the hedge all the while. In this way the boy 
learns “that astronomy is good for something, and never 
will forget the lesson ” — unfortunately neither will the 
worn-out tutor, who is always trying these little strata- 
gems, which, strange to say, the boy never sees through. 

At twelve years old Emile is a vigorous, healthy ani- 
mal, with every muscle splendidly developed, knows no 
distinction between work and play, “does not know 
what a command is, but will readily do anything for 
another person, in order to place that person under an 
obligation, and so increase his rights ; ” he is influenced 
by no authority, acts as pleases himself, knows no dis- 
tinction of rank, and knows nothing of custom or fashion. 
In all the minute details of his experiments, which we 


1 EMILE . 1 


161 


have hardly space even to indicate, the author is not al- 
together unconscious of being tiresome, for he exclaims : 
“ Header, I hear your murmurings, and disregard them ; 
I will not sacrifice the most useful part of my hook to 
your impatience.” But it is an impatience which we at 
least must respect on the part of our readers. 

In his effort to educate naturally, Eousseau makes the 
mistake of training the senses solely, and thus stunting 
the moral and mental faculties, which the ordinary cir- 
cumstances of life would evolve if Eousseau did not him- 
self arrange the circumstances. For instance, if Emile sees 
a man in a rage, he is not told of its sinfulness, is not 
warned against it; he is kept totally ignorant of any such 
vice : he sees only the signs which strike his senses ; he 
sees the sparkling eyes, the menacing gesture, the inflam- 
ed face, which show the body is not in its proper state. 
When he asks what it all means, “ Tell him the man is 
ill; he has an attack of fever.” There is, of course, a 
constant series of precautions needed to prevent his being 
undeceived. The inevitable result of the scheme is that 
the mind does not grow naturally after all ; the body 
develops, and the moral nature is abnormally retarded 
by this tutor, who plays the part of a lay providence. 

Emile at length begins to learn his relations to society, 
the first law of which is self-preservation. According to 
Eousseau, the satirist who said, “ I must live,” in excuse 
for pursuing his trade, was right. 

“ 1 1 do not see the necessity for that,’ was an excellent 
reply for a Minister, but barbarous and false on the lips of 
any one else. Since of all aversions which nature gives, the 
strongest is that of dying, it follows that everything is per- 
missible to him who has no other means of living. ... If 

F.C. — XVII. L 


162 


liOUSSEAU. 


there be such a wretched government on the earth under 
which it is impossible for a man to live justly, and where 
the citizens are compelled to be knaves, it is not the criminals 
who ought to be hanged, but he who drives them to such 
crimes.” 

It is such a lesson which the Trench peasantry were 
soon to learn in the Revolution, when St Just’s dictum 
became the national cry, Le pain est le droit du peuple. 

So soon as Emile knows what life is, he must be taught 
how to preserve it ; and what is better than for him to 
learn a trade, which will render him independent of all 
changes of fortune, and superior to the common prejudices 
by which labour is brought into contempt 1 

“ My son learn a trade ! make my son a mechanic ! Think, 
monsieur, what you advise. I do, madame. I consider this 
matter better than yon, who would reduce your child to the 
necessity of being a lord, a marquis, or a prince, or perhaps 
some day to be less than nothing. I wish to invest him with 
a title which cannot be taken from him, which will at all 
times command respect ; and I can tell you, whatever you 
may think, he will have fewer equals in this rank than in 
that which he may derive from you.” 

What trade is best is the only point worth discussion. 
Agricultural labour is good, but that Emile already un- 
derstands, having learnt to cultivate his paternal inherit- 
ance. But as he may lose that, a handicraft is essential 
to him. 

Rousseau points his lessons by one of those passages 
m which invective on society adds a bitterness to his 
warning counsel, — one of those passages which, read in 
the light of after-events, seem full of strange, unconscious 
prophecy. 


* EMILE.’ 


163 


“We are drawing near a state of crisis and an age of revolu- 
tions. Who can tell what will then become of you ? All that 
men have made, men can destroy. There are no characters 
ineffaceable except those which nature has imprinted, and 
nature has made neither princes, nor rich, nor great. What, 
then, in his abasement, will the satrap do whom you have 
brought up only to greatness? What will the farmer of 
taxes do in poverty who lived only for gold ? What will 
the weak pampered being do, when deprived of everything, 
who can do nothing for himself, and puts his whole being 
in that which is apart from himself ? Happy, then, the man 
who knows how to quit the rank which quits him, and who 
remains a man in spite of fate. Others may praise as much 
as they please that vanquished king who wished to bury 
himself under the ruins of his throne ; for my part I despise 
him. I see that he existed only by his crown, and that he 
is nothing if not a king ; but he who loses that and can dis- 
pense with it, is then superior to it. From the rank of a king, 
which a coward, a knave, or a fool can fill as well as any 
other, he rises to the state of a man, wdiich so few men know 
how to fill. ... Yes : I prefer a hundred times the king of 
Syracuse master of a school in Corinth, and the king of 
Macedonia a notary in Rome, to the wretched Tarquin, not 
knowing what to do if he does not reign, or to the heir of a 
sovereign of three kingdoms, become the sport of every one 
who dared to insult his misery, wandering from Court to 
Court, seeking everywhere for aid and finding everywhere 
affronts, — all from being ignorant how to follow any other 
occupation than that which is no longer in his power.” 

Rousseau here points his moral by the fate of Prince 
Charles Edward, wandering from Court to Court ; and at 
that time there were many others to enforce the author’s 
lesson, as those may remember who have read the memo- 
rable passage in Voltaire’s ‘ Candid e,’ which describes 
the six kings out of place, who met and bewailed their 
common fate at a cafe in Venice. Not that the learning 


164 


ROUSSEAU. 


of a trade would have benefited them much, any more 
than it did Louis XVI., who spent less time in mending 
his state than in mending locks. Emile, therefore, must 
learn a trade, and that a manual one, which will not 
make a fortune, hut enable him to do without one. If 
a man learn a fine art, he must intrigue, flatter, and cringe 
to make his way, pay court to Ministers and to ladies, 
bribe porters, “ who understand only by gratuities, and 
whose ears are in their hands,” and only succeed at last 
in adding slavery to poverty. It is better to be a shoe- 
maker than a poet, better to pave streets than to paint 
flowers on china, while to be a tailor is only fit for 
women ; and were he a king, Rousseau would not allow 
sewing or needle-work to any save cripples and women. 
He decides that the trade of a carpenter is best; and the 
tutor and Emile together became apprentices, not for play 
but in earnest. In accordance with the position of a 
tradesman Emile had all along been trained : in his 
room there was nothing to distinguish it from a peasant’s 
except cleanliness ; his fare is simple ; he knows nothing 
of rank, and he is taught that the people are indispen- 
sable, while the rich and great are superfluous. 

“ A father cannot transmit to his son the right of being 
useless to his fellow-creatures, and yet, according to your 
notions, he actually does this by transmitting his wealth, the 
proof and reward of his labour. The man who earns not his 
subsistence, but eats the bread of idleness, is no better than a 
thief ; and a pensioner, who is paid by the state for doing 
nothing, differs little, according to my idea of things, from a 
robber, who is supported by the plunder which he makes on 
the highway. Man in a state of solitude, not being indebted 
to the assistance or good offices of others, has a right to live 
as he pleases. But in a state of society where he must be 


‘ EMILE.’ 


165 


necessarily maintained at the expense of the community, he 
certainly owes the state so much labour as will pay for his 
subsistence, and this without exception to rank and persons. 
To labour, then, is the indispensable duty of social and polit- 
ical man. Rich or poor, strong or weak, every idle citizen 
is a knave.” 

Arrived at the age of fifteen, Emile has a sound con- 
stitution, an active body, “ a clear understanding, a 
heart free and without passions.” Now, however, he 
advances. “ The source of human passions, the origin 
and principle of all others, — the only one which is 
born in man, and which never leaves him, — is self- 
love.” This is an innate passion of which all the 
others are modifications. This self-regarding love is 
always good and necessary for our preservation. We 
love ourselves first, then that which benefits us, before 
we love others for themselves. We feel for suffering in 
others, because it awakens a sense of pain in ourselves.- 
It is in this way that Emile gains the sentiment of sym- 
pathy, that he is to be strengthened in his hatred of 
cruelty and oppression, and incited to humanity. Until 
this stage Emile feels for himself alone as an individual, 
and not as a member of society. Rousseau now recom- 
mends first biography, and then history, as Emile’s best 
means of studying man’s heart, previous to observing it 
in action in the world, and as a means of learning his 
duty in society. 

During all this time the pupil is supposed to know 
nothing of religion and the existence of a God. “ At 
fifteen he does not know that he has a soul, and perhaps, 
at eighteen, it is too soon to tell him, for it is a mistake 
to teach ideas too great to be understood.” Yet it is diffi- 


166 


liOUSSEAU. 


cult to comprehend how, notwithstanding all his instruc- 
tor’s precautions, he has passed so many years without 
ever hearing of it from others, or ever reading of it for 
himself. Indeed, after reading 1 Robinson Crusoe,’ which 
his tutor gave him as his first hook, and which speaks so 
much of Providence, he could not possibly, the author 
forgets, have remained ignorant of religion. Rousseau’s 
notion is that “ it is better to have no idea of God at all, 
than to have mean and unworthy ideas of Him.” This 
opinion is only what Bacon had long before repeated 
after Plutarch : “ It is better to have no opinion of 
God at all, than such an opinion as is unworthy of 
Him ; for the one is unbelief, the other is contumely.” 
The simple notions of Deity entertained by a child 
Jean Jacques strangely considers as injurious as the un- 
worthy notions entertained of Him by a man. “ Every 
child that believes in God is either an idolater or an 
anthropomorphist ;” hut instead of thinking that childish 
notions will in time give way to higher conceptions, he 
holds that “ these false representations given to children 
are never effaced.” Emile, therefore, is not taught any 
special form of religion, but enabled to choose for him- 
self according as his reason may direct him. In the 
remarkable episode of the Savoyard Vicar, which is here 
introduced, Rousseau lays down proofs of a Deity to 
him so undeniable that he concludes that “ whoever 
denies there is a God is either a liar or a madman.” 
So soon, then, as Emile has arrived at the knowledge 
of a God, new ways are found of influencing his heart. 
He finds that it is his interest to be virtuous, both from 
love to God and from the love of himself, which makes 
him seek the true means of attaining eternal happiness. 


* EMILE.’ 


167 


At the age of twenty, Emile remains still under the 
charge of his instructor, because that is the time when 
social temptations and passions are strongest,- — when 
from thoughts of love he must he diverted by other 
occupations. He is now introduced amidst the seduc- 
tions of Parisian society, for he is supposed to he pre- 
served from all its snares by the simple device- of his 
tutor describing to his pupil the ideal of a wife, — not 
too perfect to he impossible, hut real enough to he fasci- 
nating. “ I would go so far as to name her. I should 
tell him simply, * Let us call your future wife Sophie ; 
that is a name of good omen.’ ” All that is needful are 
a few artful descriptions, which make the object like 
truth. This imaginary Sophie is represented to the 
youth as shy, chaste, simple, and good ; and this ideal 
acts like a talisman, — inspires him witli love for all 
that resembles it, with dislike for all that is opposite 
to it. “ You may introduce him now into life without 
danger. Only guard his senses ; his heart is safe.” 
Surely never was more artless advice given than by 
this mildly artful preceptor, when he gave his infallible 
recipe for preserving immaculate propriety in the gay 
society of Paris. “ I would fain kliow,” he asks confi- 
dently, “if ever there was a youth better armed than 
mine against everything capable of perverting his 
morals 1 ” “I have laboured hard for twenty years to 
arm him against scoffers, and he regards ridicule as the 
reason of fools.” Emile despises the affectation and 
insincerity of society ; he does not join in its shallow, 
clever talk. “ God forbid that he should be so unhappy 
as to wish to shine ! ” He is taken to the Academy, 
only “ to he amused by the babbling , ” and passes 


168 


1J0USSEAU. 


through city life untainted by its vice, unpolished by 
its manners, uncorrupted by its philosophers. 

But a worthy mate must be found for Emile. The 
real Sophie must be discovered; and that can only 
be in the uncontaminated country. “Then farewell, 
Paris ! that famous town, seat of noise, of smoke, and 
dirt, where the women no longer believe in any honour, 
nor the men in any virtue. Farewell, Paris ! we are in 
search of love, happiness, and innocence, and cannot be 
far enough from thee.” So the two pilgrims trudge 
away on foot, — the perfect mode of travelling, in the 
opinion of Jean Jacques. Preparatory, however, to our 
introduction to Sophie, we are treated to a long discourse 
on the education of women, which deals with every 
domestic occupation from toys to religion, and treats 
of every restraint, from whalebone and tight lacing to 
morality. The discourse is remarkable for the method 
of education for girls which it recommends, — for, in 
Rousseau’s opinion, the whole aim should be to suit 
woman to the convenience of man, to make her pleasant, 
useful, and helpful to him. She is to rule only by 
gentleness and complaisance : “ her commands are car- 
esses ; her menaces are tears.” In her case, faith should 
be regulated by the authority of others, not by intelli- 
gence ; for “ women cannot keep within the bounds of 
the evidence of reason, being led by impulse, — always 
in extremes, either libertines or devotees.” A girl’s 
religion should therefore be that of her mother until her 
marriage, when she should adopt that of her husband. 
And though it has been pronounced degrading to the 
Deity and injurious to the man for a boy to have a 
premature idea of God, girls ought, on the contrary, to 


‘ EMILE.’ 


169 


be taught early about God, although — or rather because 
— they cannot comprehend Him. They are to be kept 
under restraint, to be constantly controlled, and to be 
always under conventional rules. In fact, the education 
of girls ought to be exactly the reverse of that of boys : 
for while the latter should be carefully trained according 
to nature, the other should be trained without any regard 
to it at all. There was a cynical audacity in thus pre- 
senting to French society, as the model of a wife and 
daughter, a woman fitted not to be the companion of a 
man of intelligence, but merely the keeper of his house 
and the nurse of his children, — a woman without grace, 
without knowledge, and without wit. All this, too, in 
an age when women were potent influences in every 
social and political movement, and the centres of intel- 
lectual circles. It was characteristic, however, of Kous- 
seau, that he should by his picture of an ideal wife 
condemn those ladies, full of intelligence and social 
grace, whose wit annoyed him while their kindness 
befriended him. The faithful admirer of Therese was, 
however, scarcely the most delicate judge of what are the 
finest qualities in woman. 

It is in conformity with his plan of feminine educa- 
tion that Sophie is brought up. In the course of their 
travels from Paris, Emile and his guardian take shelter 
in a gentleman’s house, and there they find the ideal 
Sophie in real life. We are told of her character : how 
she is bashful, useful, polite, yet simple. We learn her 
faults : how she is fond of dress, at first greedy, and 
always fond of sweetmeats ; and how she learned music 
chiefly to display her hands on the harpsichord. We 
are then told of the courtship, — her coyness, Emile’s 


170 


liOUSSEAU. 


eagerness, the tutor’s restraints, and, after an engagement 
of two years, their marriage. All this is narrated with 
remorseless minuteness; and the occasional idyllic charm 
of the scenes is interrupted ever and anon by tedious 
and grossly frank lectures, in which the tutor guides the 
affections, the passions, and even the matrimonial con- 
duct of his too docile pupil. 

His work finished, Rousseau feels that he has accom- 
plished the feat of making man as he is meant to 
be. It would have been well if he had stopped here, 
instead of beginning in a sequel (‘ Emile et Sophie ’) to 
present Sophie as unfaithful. The object of his design 
in doing this was, he told Hume, to show the success of 
his plan by placing his late pupil in trying circumstances, 
from which he extricates himself admirably, bearing his 
“injury with manly superior merit, and treating Sophie 
as equally amiable, equally estimable, as if she had no 
such frailty.” It was certainly wise of Bernardin de 
St Pierre to decline Rousseau’s request that he should 
finish the unfortunate fragment (the closing pages of 
which leave Emile a slave in Algiers), and allow the 
story, with its grotesque plot, to remain untold. 

“ I preach,” says Rousseau, “ a difficult art, — the art 
of guiding without precepts, and of doing everything by 
doing nothing.” But his plan is more than negative. In 
reality, he influences Emile night and day through more 
than twenty years, and holds him in leading-strings even 
after his marriage. He adopts precautions, restraints, 
stratagems without ceasing, to carry out his plans and 
prevent their being spoiled, — a strangely unnatural way 
of rearing according to nature. Rousseau makes his 


‘ EMILE.’ 


171 


pupil as he would a puppet, — makes him think, act, 
speak, exactly as he pleases ; makes events happen 
exactly as suits him, and affect him exactly as he wishes. 
In order to succeed with his method, we must therefore 
at least have a guardian like Jean Jacques and a pupil 
like Emile. And after all, it is an expensive mode of 
education, seeing that, in order to make each perfect 
citizen, it is necessary to sacrifice the career of another 
man who must devote twenty-five years to train him. 
And, in spite of all this devotion, if the disturbing ele- 
ments of a father’s authority and a mother’s affection, 
or indeed any accidental influence, come in to spoil the 
tutor’s scheme, it falls like a castle of cards. This the 
author felt himself ; and to more than one enthusiastic 
correspondent, who wished to make his work a model of 
education, he wrote with that calm sense with which 
in his letters he so often qualified the extreme views of 
his published works. He insisted that his system — in 
principle, though not in all details — must be carried out 
in its entirety, or not at all ; and he dreaded those foolish 
admirers, who would only spoil the man by imperfectly 
carrying out the plan. He honoured the heroic courage of 
an abbe who adopted his scheme, but warned him of the 
immense labour and difficulty of his task, which must 
last for twenty years : “ One moment of impatience, 
negligence, or forgetfulness may deprive you of the fruit 
of six years of toil, without the possibility of recover- 
ing it by the work of ten years more.” “You see,” 
said a M. Angar to him (in 1765, at Strasburg), “ a man 
who has brought up his son according to the principles 
which he has had the good fortune to find in your 


172 


ROUSSEAU. 


* Emile.’ ” “ So much the worse, monsieur, — so much 

the worse for you and your son,” grumbled Eousseau to 
his disconcerted disciple. 

In examining the teaching in ‘ Emile,’ it is easy for 
us to see that, while many of his plans were impracti- 
cable, many of his most striking principles were not new. 
Montaigne, Locke, even ‘ Eobinson Crusoe ’ (for which he 
had a profound admiration), were productive of thoughts 
which germinated in his fertile mind, and which were 
rendered influential by his powerful style. Perhaps none 
anticipated him more in his views on practical educa- 
tion than Eabelais in his training of Gargantua by Pan- 
ocrates. There we find condemnation of vestments 
which imprison the body and stunt the limbs; there 
we find recommendation of the alternation of physical 
and intellectual exercises ; there we find a king sawing 
wood and ricking hay ; there we find the pupil making 
his own tools, learning things before words, and gaining 
a knowledge of science by first observing objects in na- 
ture. But genius is shown less in suggesting plans 
than in making others adopt them. And therein lies 
the originality of Eousseau. When others taught no 
one followed, but when he spoke society obeyed him. 
Even the advice of learning a trade was adopted by 
men of rank, not only in France, but also in Germany. 
Turning became the favourite handicraft, and in many 
a schloss there is still the deserted room where youths 
of a long-past generation learnt to turn the lathe. 

Eousseau’s immediate influence was immense in 
French society, for this democratic writer had most 
power with the aristocratic ranks, and especially after 
the suppression of the Jesuits, when the circulation of 


f EMILE.’ 


173 


‘ Emile ’ was doubled. He instilled, to some extent, a 
tone of purity and simplicity into society, where he 
sought to reconstitute domestic life ; he added a dignity 
to the work of teaching, and gave a new importance to 
the duties of the nursery and schoolroom ; he brushed 
away innumerable pedantic habits which wearied the 
frame and cramped the mind. By insisting on mater- 
nal duties, he won the hearts of women, and his book 
became “the breviary of young mothers.” “We must 
pardon something,” said Madame Marmontel to her hus- 
band, when, one day, he was descanting on the enor- 
mities of Jean Jacques — “we must pardon something 
to him who has taught us all to be mothers.” By his 
powerful advocacy of simplicity in childhood, many 
began to realise the folly of making children the mere 
apes of adults ; and many were induced to make less 
ridiculous those boys — curled, powdered, trained to wear 
swords by their sides, and hats gracefully under their 
arms — and those girls, with huge head-dresses and fur- 
belows and rouge, simpering compliments and studying 
deportment, with all the artifices of age and none of the 
freshness of youth. “The teacher,” says Jean Paul 
Richter, “ has to liberate the ideal man in every child.” 
And this is not the only point in which Jean Paul is at 
one with Jean Jacques. Finding in society beings with 
their humanity stunted by following all their days arti- 
ficial rules, customs, and prejudices, which made “ per- 
fect gentlemen ” but most imperfect men, Rousseau tried 
to show that every moral, intellectual, and physical 
faculty should be developed in due order. Even over 
Italy a wave of sentiment passed, and the influence of 
Rousseau was felt there. Beyond the Alps, simple 


174 


ROUSSEAU. 


virtues and domestic life were lauded in fervid strains. 
Ladies ceased to send their babies out to nurse, and, as 
in France, discarded whalebone and tight lacing ; writers 
painted the horrors of rouge, late hours, and fashion- 
able dresses; and enthusiasm for nature became a la 
mode. 

The immediate effect of ‘ Emile ’ in England was com- 
paratively slight. Although it was twice or thrice 
translated into English, gained recognition from philo- 
sophical writers, and was ultimately to modify the 
systems of education, perhaps Henry Brooke’s ‘ Fool of 
Quality’ and Day’s ‘Sandford and Merton,’ with the 
patient and pedantic tutor Mr Barlow, are the only 
books which show distinct imitations of its educational 
method, while the direct influence of its social teaching 
is chiefly found in Godwin’s ‘Political Justice.’ Yet 
there is not a school in our country with its freedom 
from pedantry, its physical training, and modern mode 
of education, which has not indirectly been affected by 
‘ Emile.’ In Germany, on the other hand, it was hailed 
with admiration, and one philosopher after another wel- 
comed what Goethe called the “ natural gospel of educa- 
tion.” Herder had no words strong enough to express 
his enthusiasm for “the divine Emile.” Eichter, in his 
‘ Levana,’ declares, that he owes more to it than to any 
other work. It was even noted as a remarkable fact 
that Kant interrupted the clock-work routine of his 
days at Konigsberg, and stayed at home to read this 
new revelation, the doctrine of which permanently 
affected his opinions and his teaching. 

‘ Emile ’ incited Basedow, that eccentric and far from 
sober German professor, to try to revolutionise education, 


‘ EMILE.’ 


175 


at a time when physical training was ignored, when the 
mother-tongue was neglected, and Greek and Latin in 
dull mechanical way were alone taught, by dreariest 
rules, and with most merciless flogging — when the school- 
rooms were dark and dismal, and when children of the 
upper classes were dressed like petits -maitres, curled, 
powdered, with braided coats, knee-breeches, and daggers 
by their sides . 1 No wonder Kant said that education 
needed not a reform, but a revolution. All this Basedow 
tried to change, and in his Philanthropin in Dessau he 
adopted many of Bousseau’s methods, and acted on the 
rule, “ Everything according to nature.” In his school, 
his pupils had short hair, simple dresses, open throats, 
and shirt-collars falling over their coats; they learned 
object-lessons, got physical training, and each learned a 
handicraft. When Basedow resigned his post — for, as 
Herder said, he was not fit to have calves intrusted to 
him — Campe, author of the ‘ New Bobinson Crusoe,’ 
succeeded him, and like him worshipped Bousseau, on 
whose bust he inscribed the words, “my saint.” Kant 
prophesied that now men were educated according to 
nature, and that another race of men would spring up. 
But the school, like its eccentric founder (who left his 
body to be dissected for the benefit of mankind), passed 
away, though not without leaving lasting results. In 
Switzerland and Germany, schools were founded on 
similar principles, and the doctrines of ‘ Emile ’ were 
adopted even by its enemies. Pestalozzi, who was 
anxious to do for the poor of Switzerland what Bous- 
seau had tried to do for the rich of Erance, carried 

1 Raumur’s Geschichte der Pedagogik, ii. 29, quoted in Quick’s 
Educational Reformers, p. 141. 


176 


ROUSSKAU. 


into operation many of its suggestions, inculcating home 
education by affection, gradual development of teaching 
according to age and growth of faculties, the method of 
object-lessons and physical training. Through the teach- 
ing of men like Pestalozzi and Frobel the influence of 
Rousseau spread widely and insensibly through every 
educational system of Europe. 


177 


CHAPTER X. 

CONFESSION OF THE SAVOYARD VICAR (‘EMILE*). 

The episode of the Savoyard Vicar in 1 Emile 5 is too 
remarkable in itself, and too important in its results, 
not to require separate notice. It is a manifesto at once 
* against the orthodox dogmas of the Church and against 
the prevailing philosophical unbelief of the day, which 
Rousseau regarded with equal dislike. Scepticism he met 
with everywhere, — in society, in literature, and among 
the clergy, — from ladies in their drawing-rooms and 
wits in the cafe , to the Encyclopedists who were sapping 
and mining established opinions, and preparing for a 
revolution of society by a revolution of thought. At the 
supper-parties of Madame Geoffrin, or the dinner-table of 
D’Holbach, the Maecenas of philosophers — every ques- 
tion was discussed, from a new dish to a new philoso- 
phy. D’Holbach would stolidly denounce the tyranny 
of kings and priests, and join with Helvetius in showing 
that materialism is true philosophy. Diderot, with his 
vehement voice, would declaim against such needless re- 
strictions as marriage ; while IT Alembert, with more 
balanced words, would show the difficulties of theists; 
and St Lambert would ridicule theism altogether. Abbe 


f.c. — XVII. 


M 


178 


KOUSSEAU. 


Galiani, the brilliant dwarf, with his wig on his knee as 
he sat cross-legged on a chair, would occasionally for a 
minute be serious, and pose the confident philosophers 
with the ease of a man with three dice throwing sixes 
constantly. “ Of course,” said he, as he gave his 
apologue, “Diderot, on losing some francs, would say, 
* The dice are loaded ; we are in a bad house ! * and 
yet in the universe, where there are an enormous 
number of combinations, difficult and complicated, you 
don’t suspect that the dice of nature are loaded, and 
that there is a great rogue at work who takes pleasure 
in trapping you/’ Rousseau would sit silent and angry, 
never ready with a retort or a reply, while the com- 
pany set aside each theological doctrine as worthless, 
as composedly as they would a bottle of wine that is 
corked. Even Voltaire, always consistently a theist, was 
at times alarmed at the too free expression of loose opin- 
ion, which he feared as dangerous to the lower orders, 
who needed religion as a moral police. One day, when 
the existence of a God was being debated with much 
freedom, to the astonishment of the company he ordered 
the servants to leave the room, and locked the door. 
“Gentlemen,” he explained, as he returned to his seat, 
“I do not wish my valet to cut my throat to-morrow 
morning.” The shallow scepticism of society, which 
echoed the views of philosophers without seeing the 
immense issues involved in them, and took pleasure in 
^condensing a philosophy into a phrase, or annihilating a 
creed by an epigram/ irritated Rousseau. One evening, 
for instance, he s at a supper-party at the house of 
Madlle. Quinault, the retired actress. There everything 
was talked of — tapestry, physic, religion. St Lambert, 


THE SAVOYARD VICAR. 


179 


who was always proclaiming his atheism, ridiculed the 
idea of a God “ who makes himself angry and appeases 
himself.” Rousseau became vexed, and muttered im- 
patiently between his teeth, on which they began to rally 
him, until he exclaimed, “ If it is base to suffer that 
one should speak evil of an absent friend, it is a crime 
that one should suffer evil to be spoken of his God who 
is present; and for my part, gentlemen, I believe in 
God.” After Jean Jacques’ interruption, the conversa- 
tion still flowed on in the same strain, and St Lambert 
rejoined to Madame d’Epinay’s sentimental remark, that 
the existence of an eternal Being is the germ of the 
finest enthusiasm, by retorting that it is the germ of 
every folly. On this Rousseau cried out, “ Gentlemen, 
I go away if you say another word.” This scene dis- 
pleased him much ; and on speaking of it afterwards to 
Madame d’Epinay, he said, “I do not like public dis- 
cussions like these. I would like to see the bottom of 
the heart of the most determined of the godless, when 
they are dying. I am certain I should see disquietude 
and fear, which pierce very often through the easy ap- 
pearance they assume. Ma foi ! it is a bad service to 
render to a man tormented with disease all his days, to 
tell him there is no compensation awaiting him for the 
constant evil which he did not deserve.” 1 

In his ‘ Hew Heloise ’ he had presented the picture of 
a woman who could reason like a philosopher and yet 
believe in a God, which did much to win ladies at least 
to religious enthusiasm. How he tried to wage war 
against the philosophers, and to commend religion not 
only to the heart but to the intellect. It is in the 
1 Madame d’Epinay, Mdmoires, ii. 75. 


180 


ROUSSEAU. 


person of a simple priest that Kousseau, in ‘ Emile,’ with 
his usual dramatic inappropriateness, but also with his 
wonted force, lucidity, and sombre power, expresses what 
may be regarded as his own religious convictions. He 
narrates how he came in contact with the obscure priest 
in Savoy, and in the course of their intercourse gained 
his confidence, and heard his profession of faith. 

“ It was in summer : we rose at break of day. He led me 
outside the town to a high hill, below which the Po wound 
its way ; in the distance the immense chain of the Alps 
crowned the landscape ; the rays of the rising sun struck 
athwart the plains, and projected on the fields the long 
shadows of the trees, the slopes, the houses, enriching by a 
thousand accidents of light the loveliest prospect which the 
human eye could behold.” 

It is in such a scene that the priest tells the story of 
his life and the origin of his faith. He narrates how he 
had been plunged into scepticism, and, hating the misery 
of it, sought for grounds on which he could rebuild his 
faith. He read philosophers, but found them all con- 
ceited, all dogmatic even in their doubt, and agreeing in 
nothing but in laughing at each other. He turned at 
last to himself, in order to find there the instrument by 
which he could attain the truth. Proceeding, step by 
step, from the existence of the world and motion to 
belief in a First Cause, and from marks of design in 
nature having proved the existence of an Intelligent 
Will, he ascends to the idea and proof of an infinite 
God. 

“ I perceive God in all His works; I feel Him in myself; 
I see Him all around me ; but as soon as I contemplate His 
nature, as soon as I try to find out where He is. what He is, 


THE SAVOYARD VICAR. 


181 


what is His substance, He eludes my gaze ; my imagination 
is overwhelmed. I do not therefore reason about Him, for 
it is more injurious to the Deity to think wrongly of Him, 
than not to think of Him at all.” 

The existence of moral evil is simply explained by the 
existence in man of free-will, a gift which ennobles 
humanity, made in the divine image, and which man, 
and not God, is to be blamed for misusing. The exist- 
ence of physical evil perplexes his mind as little ; though, 
if he had no other proof of the immortality of the soul 
than the triumph of the wicked and the oppression of the 
good, that alone would prevent him from doubting it. 

“ Do not ask me if the torments of the wicked will be 
eternal : I do not know, and I have no idle curiosity to clear 
up useless questions. What matters it to me what becomes 
of the wicked ? I take very little interest in their fate. 
Nevertheless I hardly believe they will be condemned to 
endless torments. If the Supreme Being avenges Himself 
in this life, you and your errors, 0 nations ! are His minis- 
ters. He employs the evil you have done to yourselves to 
punish the crimes which have caused them. It is in your 
insatiable hearts, gnawed by avarice, envy, and ambition in 
the midst of your false prosperity, that the avenging passions 
punish your crimes. 0 Thou most merciful and benign 
Being, whatever be Thy decrees, I adore them. If Thou 
punishest eternally the wicked, I annihilate my reason be- 
fore Thy justice ; but if the remorse of those unfortunate 
beings ends with time, if their evils are to cease, and the 
same peace one day awaits us all equally, I praise Thy 
goodness.” 

In the opinion of the priest true worship is simply 
adoration, for he cannot ask God to change the wise 
order of nature, — a request which, he thinks, deserves 
rather to be punished than answered. His sole prayer 


182 


ROUSSEAU. 


is, therefore, “Thy will he done.” This view of prayer 
is more than once expressed by Eousseau, although he, 
like the Savoyard Vicar, in public worship followed the 
accustomed form of prayers. “ I do not find,” he says in 
his Confessions, “any more worthy homage to the Deity 
than that mute admiration which is awakened by the 
contemplation of His works, and which does not express 
itself by outward acts. In my room I pray more rarely 
and more coldly ; hut at the sight of a beautiful landscape 
I feel myself moved without knowing why. I have read 
that a wise bishop, in visiting his diocese, found an old 
woman who said nothing hut 1 Oh ! ’ He said to her, 
‘ Good mother, continue always to pray thus; your prayer 
is better than ours.’ That better prayer is mine too.” 
In giving his theistic arguments, few of which are origi- 
nal, and many of which are weak, everything is put with 
wonderful lucidity, and at times with eloquent strains 
of passionate conviction. The weakness of Eousseau 
was his impatience with every intellectual argument, to 
^ which his heart gave the denial. A man who does not 
believe in God is, according to him, a madman ; to deny 
free-will is pronounced an “ idle sophism ; ” the theories 
of philosophers are brushed aside with anger as wretched 
quibbling, which may please conceited thinkers, hut can- 
not satisfy any who wish to know the truth. He hears 
down the objections of science and metaphysics with a 
rush of eloquence and a flood of sentiment in which 
reason gasps for breath. Feeling is with him the criterion 
of truth, and it is not wonderful that men of more pliilo- 
C sophical intellect should refuse to he confuted by his 
mere logic of the emotions. 

When, in the person of the priest, Eousseau proceeded 


THE SAVOYARD VICAK. 


183 


to discuss revealed religion, he gave negative arguments, 
which solaced the philosophers of society somewhat for 
his uncompromising defence of theism. He holds that 
if a man only give heed to what God says in his heart, 
he will need no other revelation ; he argues, consequently, 
that either all religions are good and acceptable to God, 
or if He has prescribed one to mankind, and punishes 
them for not knowing it, He must have given unmistak- 
able signs to distinguish that faith as true, — signs which 
are at all times, and in all places, clear to every man. 
If there is any religion out of which there is no salvation, 
and there happens to be a single mortal who feels uncon- 
vinced of its truth, the god of that religion would be the 
most unjust and the cruellest of tyrants. 

“ Apostle of truth, what have you to tell me of which I am 
not a judge ? ‘ God Himself has spoken ; listen to His revela- 
tion.’ That is another thing ; to whom has He spoken ? ‘ To 
man.’ How comes it, then, that I did not hear Him ? ‘ He 

commissioned other men to tell you what He has said.’ I 
/ had much rather have heard God Himself ; it would not have 
Zcost Him more, and would have saved me from all imposi- 
tion. ‘ He secures you against that by attesting the mission 
of His envoys.’ How so 1 ‘By prodigies.’ And where are 
those prodigies? ‘In books.’ And who composed those 
books ? ‘ Men.’ And who saw the prodigies ? ‘ The men 

by whom they are attested.’ What ! always human testi- 
mony, — always men who report to me what other men have 
reported ? YVhat a number of men between God and my- 
* self! Let us see, however ; let us verify. Oh, if God had 
only deigned to excuse me all this trouble, would I have 
served Him with less zeal ? ... If there be but one 

religion, and ever}’ man is obliged to follow it on pain of 
damnation, we ought to spend our whole lives in studying, 
examining, and comparing them all ; and we should even 


184 


ROUSSEAU. 


travel to different countries, where they are established. 
Nobody is exempted from the principal duty of man ; no- 
body has any right to depend on the judgment of another. 
The artisan who lives by his work, the labourer who cannot 
even read, the timid and delicate girl, the infirm man who can 
scarcely raise himself from his bed, — all these, without excep- 
tion, would be obliged to study, meditate, discuss, and travel 
all over the world. There would no longer be any people 
settled ; the whole earth would be covered with pilgrims 
going at great expense and severe fatigue to verify, compare, 
and examine for themselves the different religions which are 
professed. Farewell, then, the trades, the arts, the human 
sciences, and all civil occupations ; there would no longer 
be any other study than that of religion ; with great diffi- 
culty he who has enjoyed the strongest health, best employed 
his time, best used his reason, and lived longest, will know 
in his old age which to accept ; and it will be much if he 
learn before he dies in what faith he ought to have lived. 

. . . 1 never have believed that God has commanded men 
under pain of damnation to be so learned.” 

He closes, then, all books except one, and that is the book 
of nature, which is open to all, legible to all, whatever 
their condition, whatever their tongue may be, — a book 
which reveals the mind and will of God. With regard 
to the existence of revelation, the priest can come to no 
decisive conclusion, there seem so many solid reasons 
both for and against it ; but he objects to the alleged 
obligation of accepting it, because he considers that 
obligation increases instead of removing the obstacles to 
salvation. “ I acknowledge,” he says, in an oft-quoted 
passage — 

“ I acknowledge to you that the holiness of the Gospel is 
an argument which appeals to my heart, and to which I 
should be sorry even to find an answer. Look at the works 


THE SAVOYARD VICAR. 


185 


of philosophers with all their pomp, how petty they are 
beside that ! Can a book at once so sublime and so simple 
be the work of man ? Can He whose history it gives be only 
a man Himself? Is this the tone of an enthusiast, or of an 
ambitious sectary ? What sweetness, what purity in His 
morals ! what a touching grace in His teaching ! what eleva- 
tion in His maxims ! what profound wisdom in His dis- 
courses ! what presence of mind, what tact, what justice in 
His answers ! what command over His passions ! Where 
is the man, where the philosopher, who can thus act, suf- 
fer, and die without weakness and without ostentation ? 
. . . Where* did Jesus learn amongst His people that 

morality, so lofty and so pure, of which He alone has given 
the lessons and the example ? From the midst of the most 
furious fanaticism the highest wisdom made itself heard, and 
the simplicity of the most heroic virtues shed lustre on the 
basest of all races. The death of Socrates, philosophising 
tranquilly with his friends, is the gentlest that one could 
desire ; that of Jesus, dying in torture, abused, mocked, 
cursed by all, is the most horrible that one could fear. 
Socrates takes his poisoned cup and blesses him who in 
tears presents it ; Jesus, in the midst of frightful suffering, 
prays for His infuriated executioners. Yes ! if the life and 
death of Socrates be that of a sage, the life and death of 
Jesus is that of a God.” 

But notwithstanding all this, the priest finds himself 
forced to own that the Gospel abounds in things so 
incredible, so irrational, that no man of sense could 
■ conceive or adopt them. What, then, is to be done ? 
“Be modest and circumspect, respect in silence that 
which can neither be rejected nor comprehended, and 
humble yourself before the great Being to whom alone 
the truth is known.” Meanwhile he regards all particu- 
lar religions as salutary institutions which prescribe in 
each country a uniform manner of worship, all of which 


186 


ROUSSEAU. 


have their special reasons in the climate, the government, 
the genius of the people, or in some other local cause 
which renders one preferable to the others, according to 
special times and places. For his part, he says, since 
the adoption of his new principles — 

“I perform the acts of religion with greater devotion. I 
am overwhelmed by the majesty of the Supreme Being, by 
His presence, by the insufficiency of the human mind. I 
take care to omit neither the least word nor the least cere- 
mony. I collect myself to perform the act of consecration 
with all the feelings which the Church and the greatness of 
the sacrament demand. I try to annihilate my reason be- 
fore the Supreme Intelligence. I say, 1 Who art thou that 
thou shouldst measure divine power V Whatever the incon- 
ceivable mystery may he, I do not fear that, at the day of 
judgment, I shall be punished for having profaned it in my 
heart. . . . Until we know more fully what the truth is, 

let us regard the public order ; in every country let us respect 
the laws and refrain from disturbing the worship they pre- 
scribe ; do not incite citizens to disobedience, — for while 
we are not certain that it is good for them to change their 
opinions, we are certain that it is bad for them to disobey 
the laws. . . . Enough for man,” he concludes, “ to do 

his duty on earth, to be sincere, to speak what is true, and 
do what is good.” 

This is not a very satisfactory end to the glowing 
confession of the priest, and perhaps some may even 
prefer his honest scepticism before his conversion to his 
devout insincerity after it. An outward conformity 
gained by untruthfulness, an obedience to law rendered by 
hypocrisy, transfigured by sentiment, is scarcely worthy 
of admiration. It is significant, however, of the clergy of 
France, who tried to punish the heretical teaching of 
Rousseau, that none of the host of critics in cassocks 


THE SAVOYARD VICAR. 


187 


condemned the insincere conformity of the Vicar, which, 
indeed, so many practised themselves. , It is also charac- 
teristic that Rousseau himself did not see the slightest in- 
consistency in representing the devout priest in one sen- 
tence as joining enthusiastically in solemn sacramental 
acts in which he did not believe, while in another he 
makes him announce that simple truth and rectitude 
form t he best religi on for man. YTo discover that Jean 
Jacques’ views were, on this point at least, consistent with 
his own practice, we may turn to the Register of the 
Consistory of Geneva on the occasion of his admission to 
citizenship: “1st Aug. 1754 — Sieur Jean Jacques Rous- 
seau, having given satisfaction with regard to all points 
of doctrine, was admitted to the Holy Communion.” 

What the legal and personal results to the author of 
the publication of ‘ Emile ’ were, we shall soon see : the 
literary and social effects of the Confession were very 
striking. The clergy, both Catholic and Protestant, 
while recognising in Rousseau a powerful advocate of 
theism, feared in him a dangerous foe to revelation and 
to orthodoxy. The most extreme unbelievers, though 
recognising in him an eloquent antagonist of traditional 
religion, felt that they had also met a power Til oppo- 
nent of their atheism and materialism ; v hili men who 
did not go beyond philosophical deism, were bitter against 
him as a deserter from the ranks of philosophy. “ Have 
you read,” Voltaire wrote to a friend, “the prose of 
Sieur Jean Jacques'? His/Vicaire Savoyard ’ deserves 
all possible chastisement. The Judas abandons us ; and 
what a time has he chosen to abandon us ! The hour 
when our philosophy was about to triumph all along the 
line.” The hour of triumph he certainly did something 


188 


ROUSSEAU. 


to postpone ; and he aided not a little in bringing about 
a reaction in that French society which could pass at a 
hound from unbelief to devotion, and which, as Duclos 
said, “ as soon as they are induced to believe in a God, 
believe in the baptism of bells.” Listening so long 
to endless raillery, incessant epigram, and clever phrases, 
society turned with a sense of relief to a man so 
unartificial and so earnest, who spoke what he be- 
lieved and what others secretly felt. There was power, 
freshness, and brilliancy of style to please their intellec- 
tual taste, and an intensity of religious fervour to appeal 
to their spiritual instincts. “ Born,” as Grimm said, 
“ with the qualities of the chief of a sect, Rousseau was 
out of place in an age whose spirit tends to a general 
association of culture and philosophy, based on a grand 
indifference to all particular opinions. Two hundred 
years ago, he would have played a great part : as a re- 
former, he would have been the soul of a revolution.” 
Even in his own age, he had a lasting religious influ- 
ence with many who now dared to express the convic- 
tions which they had hitherto been ashamed to own. 
In after -years, inspired by his teaching, Robespierre 
maintained the belief in a God as essential to society; 
and it was in the Hermitage that he spent the night 
before he inaugurated the worship of the Supreme Being 
amidst the enthusiastic crowds in the Champ de Mars. 
Fiercely Rousseau attacked every philosophical objection 
to religion he met around him. 

“ Fly,” he passionately exclaims, — “ fly from those who, 
under pretext of explaining nature, sow in the hearts of men 
desolating doctrines, and whose scepticism is a hundred 
times more positive and dogmatic than the decided tone of 


THE SAVOYARD VICAR. 


189 


their adversaries. Under the haughty pretext that they alone 
are enlightened, true, and sincere, they subject us imperi- 
ously to their peremptory decisions, and pretend to give us, 
for the true principles of things, unintelligible systems, 
built on their own imagination. At the same time, over- 
turning, destroying, trampling under foot all that men 
respect, they remove from the afflicted the last consolation 
of their misery, from the rich and powerful the sole curb to 
their passions : they tear from the heart remorse for crime, 
the hope of virtue, and boast themselves benefactors of 
humanity ! Never, say they, is truth hurtful to man. I 
believe so too ; and that is, in my opinion, a great proof that 
what they teach is not the truth.” 

"When he runs counter to orthodox opinions, there is 
no irreverence in his tone, no laughter in his ridicule, 
and no levity in that sarcasm with which he scathes 
the doctrine that religion or salvation depends on creed : 
there is rather a fierce conviction in his utterance, which 
is as like the spirit of Pascal as it is unlike the style 
of Voltaire. And yet, while Parliament condemned 
‘Emile’ for its dangerous principles, which “weakened 
the respect and love for kings,” the Archbishop of 
Paris in his pastoral denounced “ the said book as con- 
taining abominable doctrine, erroneous, impious, blas- 
phemous, and heretical.” 


190 


CHAPTEE XI. 

PERSECUTION. 

‘Emile’ appeared in May 1762, and soon after it was 
published there were signs of danger. Everybody 
praised it in private ; none dared applaud it in public. 
The Comtesse de Boufflers wrote saying that the author 
of such a work deserved a statue ; but begged that her 
letter might be returned. D’Alembert wrote a note 
saying that the book put the author at the head of men 
of letters ; but did not sign it. Duclos admired the 
work ; but never referred to it in any letter. Before 
it appeared, friends feared persecution ; and now their 
fears were realised. It was soon apparent that the 
Savoyard Yicar’s Confession would be the source of 
calamity. Parliament was at this time attacking the 
Jesuits, but had a great desire to show that though they 
intended to abolish a religious Order, they still main- 
tained religion. Eousseau was charged not only with 
saying that a man could be saved without believing in 
a God, but even with asserting that the Christian re- 
ligion did not exist. Such a preposterous charge may 
well have astonished Jean Jacques, who all along could 
not believe “ that the only man in Prance who believed in 


FLIGHT TO BERNE. 


191 


a God was to be persecuted by the defenders of Chris- 
tianity. ” Parliament ordered the book to be burned 
(June 11th), and the author to be arrested. Worse 
still, by orders of the Council of Geneva — obsequiously 
following the example and instigated by the Ministry of 
Prance — both ‘ Emile ’ and the ‘ Social Contract ’ were 
burned on the 17th of June in his native town. 

It was two o’clock in the morning of the 9th of 
June, after Jean Jacques, according to his habit, had 
read the Bible, and was half dreaming over the story of 
the Levite of Ephraim, which he had just finished, 
when Ther&se entered his room with letters from Ma- 
dame de Luxemburg, and from the Prince de Conti, 
announcing that, at seven o’clock the next morning, an 
order would be put in force to arrest him ; but that a 
promise had been got not to pursue him if he escaped. 
Jean Jacques rose, went to the castle, saw the Duke 
and Duchess, and Madame de Boufflers, who had just 
arrived, and who were solicitous that he should go 
away. This he did next day, in a chaise given him by 
the Duke, passing the soldiers sent to arrest him. In 
the first three days of his journey hp composed, greatly 
to his satisfaction, the first three prose cantos of the 
‘Levite of Ephraim.’ The moment he entered the 
canton of Berne, he got out of the carriage, and, to the 
astonishment of the coachman, who thought him mad, 
he knelt and kissed the ground, exclaiming in an 
ecstasy, “ Heaven, thou protector of virtue, be praised ! 
I touch a land of liberty.” 

At Yverdun he was received by a friend, M. Eoguin, 
and was about to take up his abode in a house offered 
to him, when an outcry arose against him in the canton 


192 


ROUSSEAU. 


of Berne ; and lie was obliged to abandon this refuge on 
the receipt of an order from the Council. Thrust out of 
Berne, debarred from Geneva, banished from France, at 
last he accepted the proposal of a niece of M. Boguin, 
that he should go to Motiers, in the Yal de Travers, in 
Neuchatel, on the other side of the mountain, and there 
live in a furnished but unoccupied house belonging to 
her son. This valley, about six miles long and a mile 
and a half wide, is formed by two chains of mountains, 
which are branches of Mount Jura. The river Beuse 
flows through it from north to south, the mountains 
throw their shadows, intercepting the sun’s rays, which 
come late and go early, giving more dreariness to the 
bare and dull scenery. It was not a bright place in sum- 
mer, and it was dismal in winter, when the snow covered 
the grey rocks and scanty dark firs. But here Jean 
Jacques at least had peace ; and in Motiers, one of the 
several villages in the Yale, he found a grateful shelter. 
Heuchatel then belonged to Prussia, and he thought it 
incumbent upon him to write to the king, and to Keith, 
the Earl Marischal, announcing his arrival, and request- 
ing leave to stay in the only shelter left to him on 
earth. 

“ I have spoken much evil of you,” he wrote to Frederick ; 
“ perhaps I shall speak yet more. However, driven from 
France, from Geneva, and from the canton of Berne, I am come 
to seek shelter in your states. Perhaps I was wrong in not 
doing so at first : this is an eulogy of which you are worthy. 
Sire, I have deserved no favour from you, and I seek none; 
but I thought it my duty to inform your Majesty that I am 
in your power, and that I am so by my own choice. Your 
Majesty may dispose of me as you may think proper.” 


LIFE AT MOTIERS. 


193 


The king neither liked Rousseau nor his works, hut 
he was ready to shelter the fugitive philosopher, and 
made him offers of kindness, which were, of course, 
declined. Marshal Keith, who was Governor of Keu- 
chatel, proved a firm and honest friend to the recluse, 
who soon learned to call him “father.” He lived at 
Colombier, six leagues off, and there Rousseau often 
went to see him, while he himself would come on pre- 
tence of shooting quails to see “ his son,” his “ excellent 
savage,” as he called the fugitive. In his new home, 
Rousseau assumed the Armenian dress, which long ago 
he had thought of wearing as an appropriate costume 
for an invalid ; but, afraid of ridicule, he had refrained 
from putting it on till now, when fresh attacks of his 
disorder induced him to assume it, after consulting the 
pastor if he could decently wear it in church. He desired 
now to live a quiet, obscure life ; and he hoped that peace- 
ful years were in store for him in this remote valley, 
living as a poor man with the poor. He began to learn 
to make laces, and, like the women, he carried his cushion 
with him when he went to pay visits, or sat down to work 
at his door. The laces he gave to young women of his 
acquaintance at their marriage, on condition of their 
suckling their children. Time passed peacefully in this 
dull valley, with its duller peasantry. At home he 
employed himself compiling his Dictionary of Music ; 
and amused his leisure by playing upon the harpsichord, 
or sometimes at cap-and-ball ( bilboquet ). In fine weather 
he took long rambles with friends among the mountains, 
or went off botanising, walking with bare head in the burn- 
ing sun. He was pleasant and chatty with the people, to 
whom he was kind and generous, and playful with the 


F.C. — XVII. 


N 


194 


ROUSSEAU. 


children. Friends found him cheerful and sometimes 
merry sitting in his straw chair, or seated at the simple 
fare cooked by Therese, who waited on the guests; though 
obtruders, whom he took for spies, found him curt and 
rude. The post brought him hosts of letters of all sorts, 
full of threats, expostulations, questions on education 
and religion ; and he righteously complains that in nine 
months he had nine louis to pay for postage. The 
Prince of Wurtemberg besought the advice of the author 
of ‘ Emile * as to the education of his daughter aged only 
four months, and constantly sent minute details of the 
infant’s ways, wants, and diet; while Eousseau, with 
much gravity and patience, gave directions for its bring- 
ing up. He had to learn from his foolish and Serene 
Highness how little Sophie had “ two teeth through,” how 
she caressed her nurse, how the poor little creature was 
kept naked in all weather in the open air, and wore no 
hat in the snow and rain, in order to harden it — or kill it. 

In Motiers Eousseau composed a pamphlet which, for 
trenchant style and brilliant argument, is unsurpassed 
by anything he ever wrote. Beaumont, the Archbishop 
of Paris, in August 1762, had issued a pastoral against 
Eousseau and his writings, to be read in all the 
churches of his diocese. This production is not very 
vigorous, but so well written that it was suspected 
that it must have had some more able author than 
the worthy prelate. “ Have you read my mandate ? ” he 
was said to have asked Piron one day. “Ho — and 
you? ” answered the poet. In November of 1762 Eous- 
seau finished his reply to it. He sets forth, with the 
utmost force and dignity, his hard case in being perse- 
cuted throughout Europe for “sounding the tocsin of 


LETTER TO ARCHBISHOP OF PARIS. 


195 


anarchy and the trumpet of atheism ” in works not worse 
than his other writings, which were universally praised. 
Ho hints at intrigues of philosophers against him, which 
have been at the bottom of all this sudden opprobrium, 
for he could tell, if he liked, “ the laughable cause why 
all the states of Europe were leagued against the son of 
a watchmaker.” He is astonished that a book which 
defends the cause of God, which inculcates every virtue, 
which maintains true religion, should have been singled 
out for odium in an age when philosophers sapped the 
basis of virtue, and when even few priests believed in 
God. “ If there were a government truly enlightened 
in Europe, it would have done honour and erected a 
statue to the author of £ Emile.’ ” He defends with 
fine fence and admirable skill his arguments in the 
Vicar’s Confession, which the Archbishop had tried 
elaborately to confute. And, rising to fierce scorn and 
indignation, he exclaims : — 

“You treat me as impious! but of what impiety can you 
accuse me, who never spoke of the Supreme Being but to 
render Him the glory due to Him ; nor of my neighbour, 
but to incite every one to love him ? The impious are they 
who profane unworthily the cause of God by making it serve 
the passions of men. The impious are they who, daring to 
set themselves up for interpreters of the will of the Deity, 
for the arbiters between Him and man, exact for themselves 
the honours due to Him alone. The impious are they who 
arrogate to themselves the right of exercising the power of 
God upon earth, and who wish to open and shut the gates of 
heaven at their will. The impious are they wdio make libels 
to be read in churches. At this horrible idea my blood boils, 
and tears of indignation flow from my eyes. Ye priests of 
the God of peace, doubt not that one day you shall ren- 
der account of the use you have made of His house. Ye 


196 


ROUSSEAU. 


men in places of dignity discoursing at your ease, acknow- 
ledging no other right than your own, no other laws than 
such as yourselves impose, you are so far from thinking your- 
selves bound to be just, that you do not consider yourselves 
obliged to be humane. . . . When you insult us with 

impunity, we are not permitted to complain ; and if we 
prove our innocence, and that you are in the wrong, we are 
accused of want of respect. Monseigneur, you have insulted 
me publicly ; I have proved that you have calumniated me. 
If you were a private individual like m\self, so that I could 
cite you before a tribunal of equity, and both of us appeared, 
— myself with my book and you with your mandate, — you 
assuredly would be declared guilty, and condemned to make 
to me a reparation as public as the offence has been. But 
you hold a rank which dispenses you from being just, and I 
am nobody. Meanwhile, you who profess the Gospel — you, 
prelate, ordained to teach others their duty, you know vours 
in such a case. For my part, I have done mine. I have no 
more to say to you, and I am silent.” 

In such powerful strain he speaks his last word 
against the Church that hated him, though so many 
of its priests had far less faith and none of the courage 
of the man they pursued. 

A year after the edict of the Genevan Council against 
him, Rousseau, who had waited to see if his fellow- 
citizens would undo the sentence, determined to re- 
nounce his ungrateful country, and wrote, solemnly 
giving up his citizenship of Geneva. This proceeding 
stirred up those favourable to Rousseau to represent his 
case to the Council, which, however, remained resolutely 
by its decision. Pamphlets appeared on the different 
sides ; “ Letters from the Country,” by Tronchin, the 
procureur - general (brother of the famous physician), 
was the one most effective on the anti-Rousseau side. 


197 


“ LETTERS FROM THE MOUNTAIN.” 

Jean Jacques determined to reply ; and in his “ Letters 
from the Mountain ” he threw down the gauntlet. 
The sensation caused was immense ; the spirit in 
which they were written embittered his enemies, and 
shocked many of his friends, although their author 
prided himself on the “ stoical moderation ” which per- 
vaded them. The vigour uf many portions is remark- 
able. Some of his religious arguments are full of inter- 
est still, though the pamphleteering interest of much of 
the work is gone. He reasons vigorously against the 
legality and justice of the conduct of the Council of 
Geneva. He discusses politics and theology without re- 
serve, without compromise. He examines minutely the 
constitution of republican bodies and their mode of 
government. He argues that even if heterodoxy is 
found in his works, it is not for the State to punish 
it ; he argues the whole question as to the evidence for 
miracles themselves, and of their use as evidence for a 
religion ; he denies — not, however, in the most pacifying 
manner — that he is responsible for the opinions expressed 
by the Savoyard Vicar. The work was burned at the 
Hague (January 22, 17 33); it was condemned in Geneva; 
it was ordered by the Parliament of Paris to he burned 
along with Voltaire’s ‘ Philosophical Dictionary ’ (April 
1765) — a companionship, no doubt, which gave grim 
satisfaction to Jean Jacques. 

Slowly the rumours of all this spread into the Val de 
Travers. The pastor took alarm now, and as the time 
of communion drew near, gave him advice to absent 
himself from the table, — to which Eousseau refused to 
listen, and resolved to appear and convince the con- 
sistory by a telling speech. Unfortunately, though he 


198 


ROUSSEAU. 


composed it, tried to commit it to memory with deplor- 
able effort, and repeated it without a fault in bed — when 
he rose in the morning he found, with humiliation, he 
could not. remember two sentences. The ministers stirred 
up the pious horror of the people against the heretic. 
From pulpits he was denounced as Antichrist ; his very 
Armenian dress gave an air of heresy to his appearance ; 
his lonely search for herbs had something diabolical 
about it ; the Swiss women hated him because he was 
said to have taught that women had no souls. Followed 
sometimes by the hootings of the people, and a shower 
of stones as he passed by the houses, he thought he 
heard the inmates exclaim, “ Bring me my gun, that I 
may fire at him.” To add to this animosity, a vile let- 
ter appeared anonymously, accusing of atrocious crimes 
this “author of two hissed comedies.” This ‘Sentiment 
des Citoyens” pretends to defend religion against the 
“ blasphemies ” of “a hypocrite who bears still the 
wretched marks of his debauches, and who, disguised 
as a mountebank, drags with him from village to village, 
and from mountain to mountain, the unfortunate woman 
whose mother he had virtually killed, and whose chil- 
dren he exposed at the gates of a hospital, rejecting 
the cares which a charitable person wished to take of 
them, and abjuring all the sentiments of nature, as he 
throws off those of honour and religion.” This letter, 
“ written not with ink, but in the water of Phlegethon,” 
Bousseau himself boldly reprinted in Paris, as the best 
way of refuting the libel, and added a preface charging 
Yernes, a minister of Geneva, and his personal friend, with 
being the author; and though the charge was false, he re- 
mained “ as certain as of his existence ” that it was true. 


PERSECUTION AT MOTIEUS. 


199 


In fact, it was a shabby and malicious work of Voltaire, 
who had been enraged by some pleasantries in the 
“ Letters,” where he was revealed as the author of the 
£ Sermon des Cinquante,’ of which he had denied the 
authorship with his usual audacity and mendacity, to 
put people off the scent even denouncing it as “the 
most violent libel ever made against Christianity.” 
Hence he vented his spleen on Kousseau by increasing 
the odium against his sore -beset enemy, to whom he 
had even offered a home with dubious sincerity. 

While involved in polemics, Jean Jacques was en- 
gaged in more peaceful labours. Corsica having been 
delivered by Paoli in 1763, communications were entered 
into by Buttafocco with Kousseau for the drawing up of 
a constitution for that island of which he had spoken so 
highly in the 1 Social Contract/ He warmly entered 
into the project, thought of settling in the island, and 
then, with matured knowledge, forming an enduring 
code for so brave a people. Boswell, who had visited 
Keith at Colombier, was introduced to the great French 
writer, and at his instigation paid his famous visit to 
Corsica, of which the world afterwards heard enough, and 
Dr Johnson complained he heard a good deal too much. 

Unpopular as Kousseau was becoming among the sim- 
ple fanatics of Val de Travers, there was no explosion 
of general wrath until September 1764. At midnight, 
as he reported to the public authorities, a shower of 
stones was hurled against the door and window; the 
door of the court was forced, and the inmates were in 
danger of their lives. 1 On this alarm, whether exagger- 

1 Gaberel gives the statement of an old woman who, when a child, 
used to annoy and frighten Jean Jacques, from which it would seem 


200 


ROUSSEAU. 


ated or not, the Council of State instituted inquiries, 
and offered rewards for the discovery of the offenders. 
Friends saw clearly that Rousseau could no longer resist 
the storm, and advised him to leave Motiers. There 
was no -lack of places of refuge offered to him; but his 
heart clung to Switzerland, and he remembered the little 
island of St Pierre, on Lake Bienne, where he had botan- 
ised the previous year, and the quiet beauty of which 
had fascinated him. There he and Therese went for 
refuge, and stayed with the receiver of the island ; and 
soon he felt as if in Paradise, for as usual all his sorrows 
and cares were at once forgotten in the enjoyment of the 
present. There were no hollow friends, no sincere ene- 
mies here. He could search for plants among the woods 
and fields ; he could join merrily in the haymaking or 
fruit-gathering, climbing up the apple-trees, with simple, 
forgetfulness of the past in the simple happiness of the 
hour. It was very joy to him to lie in a boat in the mid- 
day sun, and fall into endless reveries while the boat 
floated at its w r ill ; to sit on the grass at the hill-top, and 
gaze for hours on the Bernese Alps far off ; or to sit on 
the beach and watch the wavelets break gently at his 
* 

that the children used to hide behind the trees and cry, “ Take care, 
M. Rousseau ; they will come to take you to-morrow,” — working on 
the fears of a half-crazy man. The “ assault ” on the house, in which 
she shared, was really due, she asserted, to Therese, who got the 
children to carry big stones into the gallery, and throw one or two 
small stones at the windows (Rousseau et les Genevois, p. 22). 
Servan (Reflexions sur les Confessions) was told by a person who 
saw the house the same day, that the stones were too large to come 
through the windows ; while D’Escherny, in his Melanges de Litter- 
ature, asserts that a single pane of glass was broken. See, how- 
ever, Berthoud’s Rousseau au Yal de Travers, p. 304, where Rous- 
seau’s account gains some corroboration. 


AT ST PIERRE. 


201 


feet : for tlie movement of the water, swelling and falling 
at intervals, striking on both ear and eye, gave him a 
delight in existing without the trouble of thinking. If 
any intruder came to see him, he rushed through a 
trap-door to the garret, and sought safety from the ob- 
trusive world, grumbling to his host as he disappeared 
over the stove, “I am not in a menagerie.” He and 
his humble friends would saunter out in the fresh even- 
ing air, or sit down and chat and laugh, and “ sing some 
old song till they were full of happiness, and wish for 
another day like the last .” 1 

This peace was cruelly broken, after about two months 
of the happiest days he ever spent. The Govern- 
ment of Berne — in which canton St Pierre lay — gave 
orders, in October, that he must quit the territory. He 
was in despair. He was weary of his fugitive career ; 
he was ill, it was nearly winter, and in his perplexity 
he piteously wrote, begging that he might be allowed, at 
his own expense, to rest the remainder of his days im- 
prisoned in one of the State castles, without paper, or 
pen, or communications with the world, — with only a few 
books to read, and liberty to walk now and then in the 
garden. The answer he received was a peremptory com- 
mand to leave the State within twenty-four hours. Where 
should he go ? the poor fugitive wondered. He thought 
of Corsica, amongst whose leaders he had friends ; of 
Potsdam, whore Keith would protect him ; of Normandy, 
where Madame d’Houdetot offered him a shelter. At 
last he decided on Berlin, and set out, but got no farther 
than Strasburg, where he was welcomed with effusion, 
and where the “ Devin du Village ” was performed in his 
1 R'veries, Promenade V. 


202 


liOUSSEAU. 


Lonour in the theatre. He now began to fear the cold 
and rude climate of North Germany, and accepted the 
suggestion of friends to go to England, where Hume 
charged himself with the responsibility of finding a re- 
treat quiet and agreeable to him. On December 11th, 
Rousseau arrived in Paris. 

Rooms were lent him by Prince de Conti in the Hotel 
St Simon, in the privileged quarter of the Temple, of 
which the Prince was grand prior, and where no lettres 
de cachet could touch him. His reappearance created a 
great excitement ; everything he said and wore was sub- 
ject of eager talk. When Rousseau showed himself in 
the streets or at a cafe, the crowd was enormous to see 
him. “ If you asked,” says Grimm, “ one half of the 
people what they were doing, they replied they wanted 
to see Jean Jacques; and if asked who he was, they 
replied that they did not know anything about that, but 
that they were waiting to see him pass.” 


203 


CHAPTER XII. 

IN ENGLAND. 

On the 13th of January 1766 Rousseau arrived in Eng- 
land, and as he landed he silently embraced his friend 
and covered him with kisses and tears. Boswell, proud 
of being associated with any scrap of celebrity, brought 
over Therese a little later. Rousseau found in London 
that his fame was as great as in Paris. All society, 
including the Prince of Wales incognito , called on 
him in Buckingham Street; the theatres were crowded 
to gaze on him. He was oppressed by attentions in 
which Therese also shared. He, however, declined the 
invitations for her to accompany him into fashion- 
able circles: “Madlle. le Vasseur is a good and very 
estimable person, but not fit for grand society,” he 
answered. 1 Meanwhile Dr Johnson, at the Mitre, passed 
his boisterous comment on him to Boswell as “ a rascal 
who ought to be hunted out of society.” “ Sir, I would 
sooner sign a sentence for his transportation than that 
of any felon who has gone from the Old Bailey these 
many years. Yes, .1 would like to see him work at the 
plantations.” Though Hume pronounced him “ modest, 
1 Unpublished letter. Royal Society of Edinburgh. 


204 


ROUSSEAU. 


gentle, mild, and good-humoured,” he, too, had his little 
difficulties with his friend, whom he found not free from 
had humours, or from obstinacy in giving vent to them. 
On one occasion it required all his efforts to prevent 
Rousseau staying away from the theatre, where Garrick 
had made special arrangements for him, and where the 
king was to he present to see him, all because his dog 
“ Sultan ” would, he feared, howl in his lodgings during 
his absence. Perhaps this was the night in which Mrs 
Garrick had to hold his skirts in terror, lest he should 
fall into the pit in his anxiety to show himself in the 
front of the box. He tired of lodging in London and 
its neighbourhood, and longed for the country solitude. 
Various places were proposed for his residence, and at 
last Mr Davenport, a gentleman of large fortune, placed 
at his command his house at Wootton, in the Peak of 
Derby, and the offer was accepted, though Rousseau 
insisted on paying <£30 a-year as board for himself and 
Therese. 

Wootton lies at the foot of the Weaver hills, 
about six miles from Ashbourne, and is situated in a 
rugged, solitary part of the country, with much loveli- 
ness in the green hills and woods around, and in the 
neighbouring beautiful dales of the Peak; with much 
dreariness in the silent moorland wastes, and the wild 
landscape which meets the eye as one stands on the 
ridge of the green Weaver. The district is so high 
that the flowers of spring are sometimes in full bloom in 
the middle of June; and no wonder the refugee wearied 
sometimes to see more “ of the sun and of his friends.” 
The house was in charge of a very old housekeeper, who 
had been Mr Davenport’s nurse, to whom Therese, as 


AT WUOTTC/tf. 


205 


usual, quickly made herself obnoxious. Rousseau arrived 
in the bleak March, when the snow was on the ground ; 
and in the desolate house, neither being able to under- 
stand a word of English, Therese spoke with the ser- 
vants by signs. At the end of the month he writes : 
“ It has been freezing ever since I came here ; it has 
snowed incessantly ; the wind cuts the face. In spite of 
all this, I would rather live in a hole of one of the rab- 
bits of this warren than in the finest room in London.” 1 
There were kind neighbours who visited without intrud- 
ing upon him ; and those who did intrude were obliged, 
to his amusement, only to look at him vacantly and in 
silence, for he did not know English, and they could not 
speak a word of French. There was a rich variety of 
plants to gratify the botanist’s heart, wild scenery to 
remind him somewhat of the Jura district; while the 
villagers never troubled this meagre little man, with 
piercing eyes and restless gait, in strange dress, whom 
they vaguely thought was an exiled king. 

Shortly after his arrival in England, Hume kindly 
negotiated for a pension of £100 for his friend, who 
had only £70 a-year of his own, and these services 
were the beginning of misfortunes. The promise of a 
pension from the king had been obtained in January, 
but there arose misunderstandings as to the conditions 
of its being accepted. Hume understood Rousseau to 
say he would only accept it if given privately ; and 
when he found that the reverse was the case, and that 
Jean Jacques would only take it if given publicly, he 
got General Conway to ask the king to change the con- 
ditions. As months passed by, Jean Jacques’ mind, 
1 Unpublished letter. Royal Society of Edinburgh. 


206 . 


ROUSSEAU. 


in his solitary residence, with dull days and sleepless 
nights, became full of dark thoughts and sinister suspi- 
cions, which at last broke out in a letter accusing Hume 
of having entered into a conspiracy with Voltaire and 
D’Alembert to bring him to England in order to ruin 
him ; and he saw in those mistakes about the pension a 
subtle plot to blacken his character. His morbid rage 
had been fiercely excited by an ironical letter 1 which 
had appeared when he was in Paris, purporting to be 
written to him by the King of Prussia. Eousseau at 
first attributed it to Voltaire, then to D’Alembert ; but 
it was really by Horace Walpole, who was also in Paris 
at the time. Hume’s conduct with regard to this epistle, 
as well as to other matters, seemed atrocious in the eyes 
of Jean Jacques, who in July wrote his famous letter, 
full of the maddest charges, written in the most beautiful 
of handwriting. He complains that Hume introduced him 
to Walpole, while knowing him to be the author of the 
forged letter; that Hume had once angrily denied that his 
enemy D’Alembert was a cunning and dishonourable 
man ; that Hume had lived in London with a son of Dr 
Tronchin, who was his mortal foe ; that it was Hume’s 
fault that the newspapers and public of England, at first 
so enthusiastic, were now silent or unfavourable to him ; 
that Hume, on the first night of their departure from 
Paris, had called out in his dreams vehemently, “ Je 
tiens Jean Jacques Rousseau ” — words which were now 

1 It begins : “ My dear Jean Jacques, you have renounced Geneva, 
your native place. You have been expelled from Switzerland, a 
country so extolled in your writings; France has issued a warrant 
against you: therefore come to me. I admire your talents; I am 
amused by your dreamings ; though — let me tell you the truth — 
they absorb you too much and too long,” &c. 


QUARREL WITH HUME. 


207 


proved full of evil meaning ; that Hume had sometimes 
eyed him with a sardonic look, which tilled him with 
trouble at the time ; that on one of those occasions he 
had fallen on Hume’s neck and embraced him, and, 
choked with tears, cried out, “ Ho, no ; David Hume is 
no traitor ! ” whereupon Hume had quietly returned his 
embrace, and, patting him on the hack, said several 
times, “ Quoi, mon cher monsieur ? Eh ? mon cher 
monsieur! Quoi done, mon cher monsieur ? ” that 
Hume was inquisitive, had often been alone with 
Therese, and had gone out of the room after his servant, 
evidently in order to read Jean Jacques’ letters, which 
she had in her hand. Such are some of the extra- 
ordinary charges which were brought against the good- 
natured, phlegmatic historian, who, unfortunately, in- 
stead of quietly regarding them as the morbid fancies of 
a disordered mind, embittered the quarrel by the reply 
he sent, and the publicity he gave it. In hot haste he re- 
ported “ the atrocity” of Jean Jacques to D’Holbach, who 
had before in Paris warned him he was cherishing a ser- 
pent, and he bade him announce the news to his friends. 
Never was there such excitement as when there was read 
at a supper at M. Necker’s this letter, the first words of 
which were, “ My dear baron, Jean Jacques is a villain.” 
Hot content with this, Hume also wrote to D’Alembert, 
and desired him to tell others, even Yoltaire. It would 
have been well if the historian had remembered his own 
true words about his unhappy enemy : “He has only felt 
during the whole course of his life, and in this respect 
his sensibility rises to a pitch beyond what I have seen 
any example of; but it still gives him a more acute 
feeling of pain than of pleasure. He is like a man who 


208 


ROUSSEAU. 


was stript, not only of his clothes, hut of his skin, and 
turned out in that situation to combat with the rude and 
boisterous elements/’ 1 An account of the quarrel was 
published by Hume in English and French — for it was 
feared Kousseau in his memoirs would give posterity a 
false account of the rupture. Society on both sides of 
the Channel were as excited as by an international war, 
and pamphlets swarmed from the press on opposite sides 
of the ridiculous yet melancholy dispute. 

During all this wretched controversy, Jean Jacques 
did not publish a word. In his lonely house at Woot- 
ton he in solitude bewailed his misery and brooded 
over this dire conspiracy against him. He devoted him- 
self to more lasting work. The autumn and winter of 
1767 he spent in writing the first part of his ‘Confes- 
sions.’ He had formed the project of writing his memoirs 
years ago at Montmorency, and at Motiers had collected 
letters and papers to assist his memory. He had re- 
solved at that time to show the world the real nature 
of the man they were maligning ; and, though he con- 
sidered himself “ the best of men,” he resolved to hide 
no fault, however odious. How he wrote his ‘Con- 
fessions ’ under the impression that the whole world was 
false to him, and he therefore determined to tell pos- 
terity what the man really was whom his age so griev- 
ously misjudged. Of course the morbid suspicions of 
the writer colour every page that relates to his inter- 
course with living friends ; and the last part, written at 
Monquin and Paris, bringing his story down to his de- 
parture for England, shows how these suspicions had 
grown upon him, while in the footnotes he adds his 
1 Burton’s Life of Hume, ii. 314. 


THE ‘ CONFESSIONS.’ 


209 


malign interpretations of actions to which he had at- 
tributed honest motives when he first wrote. jSTo auto- 
biography has equalled its startling frankness and intense 
self-consciousness, for which we are prepared by the 
opening words : — 

“ I begin an enterprise which has never had an example, 
and which will never have an imitation. I wish to show to 
my fellow- creatures a man in all the truth of nature ; and 
that man is myself — myself alone. I feel my heart, and I 
know other men, I am not made as those whom I have 
seen, and I venture to believe that I am not made like any 
who exist. If I am not better, at least I am different. Let 
the trumpet of the last judgment sound when it may, I shall 
come, the book in my hand, to present myself before the 
Sovereign Judge. I shall say aloud, 1 See what I have done, 
what I have thought, what I was. I have spoken the good 
and evil with equal frankness; I have concealed no sin, I have 
added no virtue ; and if I have used any slight adornment, 
that was only to supply a void occasioned by defect of 
memory. I may have supposed that to be true which I was 
not certain of being so, but never that which I knew to be 
false. 1 have shown myself such as I am, — contemptible 
and vile when I have been so ; kind, generous, and sublime 
when I was so. I have unveiled my inner nature, such as 
Thou, Eternal Being, hast seen it. Gather around me the 
innumerable crowd of my fellow- men ; let them hear my 
confessions, weep over my indignities, and blush for my 
miseries. Let each in his turn open his heart at the foot of 
Thy throne with the same sincerity, and then let any one say, 
if he dare, 4 1 am letter than that man ! ’ ” 

This glorified egotism is without a parallel ; and after 
the terrible frankness with which he relates his delin- 
quencies and his amours, his hates, his passions, and his 
wrongs, he can only too truly boast of the honesty with 
f.c. — xvii. o 


210 


IlOUSSEAU. 


which he presents his character before the world — naked, 
but not ashamed. jSTot only does he tell of his youthful 
knaveries, which are without edification for any being, 
but he narrates incidents a man hardly mentions to his 
nearest friend, all unconscious «>f their grossness, and 
never feeling that they degrade those chapters which 
contain scenes of exquisite beauty. From passages 
of home-life or of rural simplicity, sweet as the fra- 
grance of new-mown grass, we turn to passages of 
meanness and impurity, told with wonderful simplicity 
of heart and with all his grace of style. Amidst all the 
picturesque incidents of country and of social life, the 
portraits drawn with rare skill, and pastoral scenes 
painted with admirable vividness of memory or of fancy, 
we meet with a man who, while he pities himself, suspects 
or hates almost every one who comes closely in contact 
with him. The Due de Luxemburg, Malesherbes, Keith, 
St Lambert, Madame d’Houdetot, are of the happy few 
who escape his animosity ; but almost all other friends 
gain his disdain, his distrust, or his dislike. Baron 
Grimm he hates with a perfect hatred ; Diderot and 
D’Holbach incur his bitter anger ; D’Alembert, as well 
as Madame de Luxemburg, he suspects of stealing his 
papers; Madame d’Epinay he charges with deceit and 
jealousy ; the Comtesse de Bouffiers, one of his truest 
friends, whom he has coarsely accused of at first making 
love to him, he asserts felt towards him “ implacable 
hatred.” Diderot wisely said, “Too many people would 
be wrong if Jean Jacques were right.” In his * Confes- 
sions,’ in order to vindicate his own character, he cares 
not whose feelings he wounds, whose character he ma- 
ligns, or whose reputation he crushes. lie shows him- 


THE ‘CONFESSIONS.’ 


211 


self a man who never acted from duty if it clashed with 
his interests ; a man ungrateful by nature (as he told 
Malesherbes), and suspicious in temper, who would by 
. churlish refusal wound the feelings of any who confer 
a favour, rather than with courtesy receive an obligation 
which might lessen his freedom ; a man who winced 
under rank because it reminded him of his social in- 
feriority, and was proud with the pride of a lackey 
who has given up his place, and is anxious to show 
his independence ; a man who owned his sins with the 
humility of a publican, and indemnified himself by as- 
serting his virtues with somewhat of the arrogance of a 
Pharisee. Yet, to redeem this, one thinks with relief of 
his fidelity to the dull partner of his life ; his sympathy 
with the oppressed, and his ready charity given out of his 
own poverty to his poorer neighbours ; 1 his reverence in 
an age that was irreverent ; his courage in asserting his 
opinions, and his true dignity in maintaining them at 
every cost; his independence in conduct wdiich never 
yielded to wealth or rank. In his dreamy, sensitive, 
egoistic nature, to which work was painful, self-denial im- 
possible, and impulse all-powerful, we may rather see a 
man who was the dupe of his own feelings, than the 
charlatan his enemies deemed him. “ I am not made 
like other men,” he has truly said ; and in no case is 
more perplexingly illustrated the difficulty of deciding 
at what stage of mental disorder moral responsibility 
ends, and where censure of a heart that is bad should 
turn to pity for a mind that is unhinged. Yet when 

1 Berthoud’s Rousseau, sa vie au Val de Travers, p. 334. He 
sent 350 francs in the wretched winter of 1766-67 to his compatriots 
— more than a fourth of his income. 


212 


KOUSSEAU. 


the ‘Confessions’ were published (1781-88) with their 
jealous accusations, it was natural that those who be- 
fore had only pitied him should now condemn him, 
and that the voices of his remaining friends who had 
been brave in his praise should henceforth be silent, 
even in his defence. 


213 


CHAPTER XIII. 

LAST YEARS. 

The winter at Wootton was not a happy one. The 
weather was extremely bad, and Rousseau couid not get 
out to botanise as he was wont, while indoors there was 
not much to amuse the short days and long nights, but 
writing and playing on the spinet — although there 
were times when he enjoyed life, seeing and rambling 
about with friends, and making botanical excursions 
with the young Duchess of Portland. Therese added 
little to his peace, ancl worried him by quarrels with 
the servant, with whom she could only speak by signs 
or scanty broken English ; and she turned his bitter 
thoughts from his enemies to complaints of ashes being 
put into the victuals. Day by day he became more 
morose, more suspicious, more unsettled. Everybody 
he looked upon as in conspiracy against him, and in 
every seeming kindness he saw some base motive at 
work. He fancied himself watched; he thought that 
every letter he got had been intercepted and opened. 

At last he resolved to take flight ; and, leaving all his 
papers and money behind him, in May he fled from 
Wootton. Xo one knew whither he had gone, until, a 


214 


EOUSSEAU. 


fortnight after, he was heard of at Spalding, in Lincoln- 
shire ; but when inquiry was made, he had disappeared. 
From this place he had written a letter to the Lord 
Chancellor (styling himself “ Herbalist to the Duchess 
of Portland ”), begging him to appoint a guard at his 
expense to escort him out of a kingdom full of ene- 
mies. From Dover he wrote to General Conway, who 
had befriended him, saying that plotters were every- 
where looking for him, fearful lest, if he left the coun- 
try, he would reveal the persecutions he had undergone ; 
but if he were permitted to escape, he promised that 
he “ would never divulge the wrongs he had suffered.” 
On the night of May 20th he got to Calais. When he 
reached France, his painful excitement ceased, and he 
was calm and collected. On his arrival, he was re- 
ceived with all honour at Amiens, and the Marquis de 
Mirabeau settled him at Fleury-sous-Meudon, one of 
his seven chateaus, under the name of “ M. Jacques.” 
Mirabeau had been a correspondent of Rousseau for 
some time, and was an immense admirer of all that he 
wrote ; and, as a doctrinaire , he was full of theories, 
with which he was wont to weary Jean Jacques. In 
theory he was a “ friend of the people,” in fact he was a 
keen aristocrat; in profession he hated despotism, in 
practice he was a despot on his estates, and a tyrant 
at home. The hot - headed author of the £ Ami des 
Hommes ’ was indeed, as Gibbon said, “ an extraordin- 
ary man, with imagination enough for twelve, and with- 
out common-sense enough for one.” While in England, 
at Fleury, and at Trye, Rousseau constantly received from 
him well-meant letters t)f unpleasant advice, political 
hobbies to discuss, and controversial books to study, till 


FLIGHT FROM TRYE. 


215 


in despair the poor recluse wrote, “ I adjure you, have 
pity on my state and my misfortune ; leave in peace my 
dying head, and no more awaken ideas nearly extin- 
guished. Love me always, but do not send me any 
more books to read, and do not require me any more to 
read them.” A few weeks were enough at Eleury, and 
Rousseau accepted the Prince de Conti’s offer of the use 
of his chateau at Trye, near Gisors. There he went and 
lived under the name of “ Renou,” for the order of Par- 
liament for his arrest was still in force. 

For about a year he remained (June 1767 to June 
1768). During the time he carried on his old em- 
ployments, continuing the narration of his ‘ Confes- 
sions,’ arranging for the publication of his Dictionary 
of Music, botanising, and dreaming. His morbid sus- 
picions, however, returned with melancholy strength. 
He was certain that the servants insulted him, and were 
emissaries of Hume ; and when a servant died suddenly, 
he demanded a post-mortem examination, lest he should 
be accused of poisoning him. He at last fled with Therese 
from Trye, and wandered from place to place, seeking 
rest and finding none for his troubled spirit and his 
weary body. It is pitiful to watch these two forlorn 
wanderers, united in fate but not in heart, travelling 
aimlessly with their poor scanty baggage, without home 
and without hope, from refuge to refuge. At Bourgoin 
they lived in poor inns ; and while there he went through 
a little ceremony with Therese which he fancied consti- 
tuted a marriage. One day, seated at table with her 
and two guests, he solemnly declared she was his wife. 
“ This good and seemly engagement was contracted,” he 
wrote, “ in all the simplicity but also in all the truth 


216 


ROUSSEAU. 


of nature, in the presence of two men of worth and horn 
our.” He went in 1769 to Monquin, where a lady lent 
him a house, and there he stayed for eighteen months. 
During summer, in the cool shade of the woods, and in 
the fresh breezes amongst the hills, he would forget his 
cares, feeling sure enemies could not find him there; 
and in the eagerness of seeking some rare moss, or while 
gently taming the swallows that confidingly settled in his 
room, all the world’s. conspiracies passed for a time from 
the memory of the old man. There was not much, after 
all, to comfort him in that shelter. Therese was tired of 
him, and neglected him, wearied by his odd ways and 
his lonely habits and morose moods, during which days 
would pass without his speaking a word to her; and 
some pity must be felt for the forlorn woman in her ill- 
assorted life with a man whom she never understood 
either in his success or in his misery. Rousseau pleaded 
with her against this coldness and alienation in a letter 
full of wonderful tenderness and pathos, which reveals 
the dreariness of the strange household. In the winter 
months of 1770, when the snow was thick around, the 
bitter cold pierced the room in which he lived, so that, 
even as he sat by the fire, his fingers were numb. There 
he brooded over his grievances and his enemies, com- 
posed the later books of his ‘ Confessions ’ with every 
bitter feeling excited and every suspicion quickened, and 
wrote to his few friends those letters which seem wails 
of despair : “ What ! always to see men false, wicked, 
malevolent ! always masks, always traitors, and not one 
single face of a man ! Ah ! this life to me is insup- 
portable ; and as its end can be the only close to my 
troubles, I desire to leave it ; and this will be the be- 


RETURN TO PARIS. 


217 


ginning of that felicity for which I feel myself born, 
and which I have vainly sought on earth. How I long 
for that happy time ! ” 1 

In July he returned to Paris to begin life anew, and 
to seek again that peace amidst society he could not find 
beyond its pale. He gave up his Armenian dress-, and 
began his old pursuit of a copyist of music at ten sous a 
page. For a time the delusions passed into the back- 
ground of his thoughts, and the dark clouds of misery 
and melancholy were somewhat lifted from his spirit. 
His life assumed a simple routine. In summer he rose at 
five o’clock in the morning, and copied music till half- 
past seven, when he took his frugal breakfast, during 
which he arranged his new plants. Then he returned to 
work till dinner at half-past twelve, after which he went 
out to a cafe , and thence passed on his solitary walks, re- 
turning at night, and retiring to bed at half-past nine. 
His music-copying — a mechanical work which suited his 
mental indolence, and left him free to muse — gained him 
food : there was no lack of orders, and he was content 
if he earned fifty sous a-day. The shabby stairs of his 
lodging in the fifth storey of the Rue Platriere were beset 
by people of rank, who came to see him on every possible 
pretext, and indeed so numerously they came, that at 
last he refused to see any except customers. Bernardin 
de St Pierre, whose fame as author of ‘ Paul and Vir- 
ginia ’ was not yet won, was fortunate enough to make 

1 Letter to St Germain, Feb. 17, 1770. Most of his letters at this 
time he heads with a dismal quatrain : — 

“ Pauvres aveugles que nous sommes, 

Ciel remarque les imposteurs, 

Et force leur barbares coeurs 
A s’ouvrir aux regards des hommes.” 


218 


KOUSSKAU. 


the acquaintance of Rousseau, and he tells us how he 
looked and how he lived at this time : — 

“He was thin, and of middle height. One of his shoulders 
seemed higher than the other ; perhaps this was due to some 
natural defect, or the attitude he assumed at his work, or 
to age, which made him stoop, for he was then sixty : in 
other respects he was very well proportioned. He had a 
brown complexion, with colour on his cheek-bones ; a beau- 
tiful mouth, a nose well formed, the forehead round and 
high, and eyes full of fire. The oblique lines which fell 
from his nostrils to the extremities of his mouth, and which 
gave character to the countenance, expressed great sensibility. 
One noted in his face three or four characters : melancholy 
by the hollowness of the eyes and the depression of the eye- 
brows ; a profound sadness by the wrinkles on the forehead; 
a very lively and even caustic gaiety by a thousand little 
creases at the exterior angles of the eyes, the orbits of which 
disappeared when he laughed.” 

In the little room where he lived and worked there 
stood his spinet, two little beds, a table, and several 
chairs, which formed his whole furniture. On the walls 
were a plan of the park and forest of Montmorency, and 
an engraving of George III. His wife, now very fond 
of speaking of Jean Jacques as “my husband” to vis- 
itors, sat cutting linen ; a canary sang in a cage near the 
ceiling ; tame sparrows came to eat crumbs at the open 
windows ; while Rousseau, in an overcoat and white cap, 
copied music. 

Although he did not favour society, he did not alto- 
gether shrink from it. He might sometimes be found 
at supper with the wealthy, vivacious Sophie Arnould, 
the famous singer, whose prematurely impaired voice 
made the wit cruelly say of her performance, that “ he 


IN SOCIETY. 


219 


had never heard a finer asthma.” Often he was at the 
rooms of St Pierre, where we see him going in a round, 
well-powdered, well-curled wig, in a complete dress of 
nankeen, his hat under his arm, his little cane in his 
hand. He liked at the cafe to discuss music with Gluck 
and Gretry, who were at last convincing him that music 
could he wedded to French words. At the houses of 
his aristocratic friends he gave readings of his ‘ Confes- 
sions ’ (in 1770-71), until Madame d’Epinay, knowing 
the too frank details about herself, got the police to stop 
the performances. But it must not be forgotten that he 
never spoke evil in conversation, even of his enemies, in 
those days. He was still afraid of compromising his 
independence, and too often requited kindness with sus- 
picion and jealousy. It was not always pleasant or safe 
to be too familiar with this Timon of Paris, for in a 
moment the sweet expression of eye and mouth could 
become distrustful and angry. When St Pierre sent 
him some fine coffee he had brought from abroad, he got 
this stinging answer : “ We hardly know each other, and 
you begin by presents. This is to render our intercourse 
too unequal. Choose either to take back your coffee, or 
that we shall see each other no more.” And his friend 
was obliged in return to accept a foreign plant and a book 
on ichthyology, for which he had no possible need. One 
day his acquaintance, Bulhiere, called. Bousseau re- 
ceived him coldly, and went on copying, saying, “ I must 
live by my work ; ” but the visitor still remained, seating 
himself by the fire. Suddenly Bousseau turned to him 
with his glittering eyes, and said, with sharp voice : 
“ M. de Bulhiere, you have come to find out what I have 
got in my pot. Very well, I shall gratify your curiosity. 


220 


EOUSSEAU. 


There are two pounds of meat, a carrot, an onion, 
flavoured with clove.” M. de Rulhiere did not, on the 
whole, enjoy his visit. We have pity for poor Madame 
de Latour, who, enamoured of the author of ‘Julie/ had, 
without ever seeing him, except on one short interview, 
been his favourite correspondent for ten years. Many 
were the loving letters he had exchanged with “dear 
Marianne,” much affection for her he had expressed, 
often he had desired to see her face, and she had bravely 
pleaded for him when society condemned him; now 
when she heard he was in Paris, she climbed with beat- 
ing heart the stairs of the Rue Platriere to meet her 
beloved friend. To her dismay, when she introduced 
herself again, he would hardly see her, churlishly spoke 
to her, and cruelly wrote : “ It does not suit me to 
remain in intercourse with any whose character and rela- 
tionship I do not know well. Of all my correspondents, 
you are the most exacting, the one of whom I know 
least, and the one who has enlightened me least on the 
matters which I care to know. That has determined me 
to break off an intercourse which has become burden- 
some to me, and the true motive of which on your part 
I may miss.” Poor Madame de Latour ! her whole heart 
was Rousseau’s, and he flung it away. 

Rousseau hated the streets of Paris, which he felt 
hard as the hearts of his friends. He loved to walk in 
the suburbs, to note from Mont Valerien the rich sun- 
sets, to watch the leaves of the trees change with the 
changing seasons, and to listen dreamily to the songs of 
the birds. Two leagues a-day the recluse went to Berci 
during spring to hear the nightingale in perfection ; for 
being a very epicure in his sensuous feelings, he tells 


DELUSIONS. 


221 


us the water, the verdure, the solitude, the woods, were 
needed to make the song touch his heart. Whenever he 
entered the country, his whole countenance changed, and 
became bright and serene. “ I have told my wife,” he 
said, walking with St Pierre, “ ‘ when you see me very 
ill, and not likely to recover, get me carried to a meadow, 
and you will find me well again.’ ” 

In his latest years he devoted little time to literature. 
In 1772, by request, he wrote his * Considerations on the 
Government of Poland,’ — a country then in political 
anarchy, and, as he shrewdly saw, near its end; and 
during four years he composed in some of his bitterest 
moments ‘ Rousseau juge de Jean Jacques,’ a marvellous 
composition, in which, in dialogue with an imaginary 
“Frenchman,” he discusses the vices and virtues of 
“Jean Jacques” as a third party, defending him from 
the atrocious charges which he believed were brought 
pqainst him, in order to vindicate his maligned character 
in the eyes of posterity. These Dialogues are full of 
wild, insane suspicions against men, — full of the notion 
that every one insulted him, that he was watched by 
spies in every cafe , and had been mocked in every 
honour of late years shown him, — in London, at Amiens, 
and by the Prince de Conti. And yet in this extraordi- 
nary work there is remarkable self-portraiture, and most 
acute analysis of his own character. The author de- 
scribes himself such as the world views him to-day, as a 
man who seldom in his conduct acted from sense of duty, 
but blindly followed his inclinations ; who would form 
in his room noble and beautiful resolutions which van- 
ished before he reached the street ; gifted with sluggish 
thoughts and lively imagination ; living in the present 


222 


ROUSSEAU. 


and forgetting the past, and without care for the future. 
As if believing everything connected with himself must 
be of profound interest to the world and to future ages, 
he gives the minutest traits of his character, — of his 
irresolute, laborious laziness ; even how he will correct 
his manuscript with incredible pains rather than resolve 
to begin a new page, scraping and rescraping till the 
page is in pieces. 

These Dialogues, with their half-insane exposure of 
the injuries he imagined he was receiving from man, 
and their proclamation of his own innocence, he regarded 
as the true vindication of himself to posterity ; and his 
anxiety, when he finished them in 1776, was to prevent 
their malicious suppression by his enemies. He con- 
ceived a strange device. He prepared a copy of the 
precious document, and sought an opportunity of put- 
ting it on the altar in Notre Dame, fancying by this 
means it would be brought before the king. On some 
Saturday when the choir was empty, he thought he 
could unseen lay his sacred parcel. He inscribed on 
the manuscript a prayer to God, beginning, “ Receive 
this deposit, confided to Thy providence by a stranger, 
unfortunate, lonely, without support, outraged, mocked, 
defamed, betrayed by a whole generation.” We see 
him on Saturday, 24th February 1776, coming an- 
xiously to Notre Dame to leave his manuscript, and 
stepping stealthily on his way from pillar to pillar in 
the long aisles. Suddenly, to his dismay, he discovered 
that, in the railing dividing the choir from the nave, 
the gate was shut, which for thirty-six years he had 
never seen before. Horror-struck, he wildly rushed out 


IN POVERTY. 


223 


of the church, feeling that Gcd had joined with man 
in the conspiracy against him, and wandered till dark- 
ness and fatigue drove him home. He next wrote a 
strange circular address to the French nation against 
the cruel wrongs done to his name, and made many 
copies, to distribute to persons he met in the streets. 
He addressed it “ To every Frenchman loving justice and 
truth,” fancying none could refuse a paper with such a 
flattering title. “But all,” he says, “after having read 
the address, declared, with an ingenuousness which 
made me laugh in spite of my sorrow, that it was not 
addressed to them. ‘ You are right,’ said I to them, 
taking it back ; ‘ I see very well I am mistaken.’ Here 
w f as the only honest speech which for- fifteen years I had 
got from the mouth of any Frenchman.” 1 

In his latest years he gave up copying music. He be- 
came feebler, and he became poorer. He took only water 
at his scanty meals, not thinking himself able to afford 
the cheapest wine. In this situation, in May 1777 he 
drew up a memorial stating his condition, and begging 
that he and Therese might be received into a hospital. 
They would be content, he urged, with the simplest 
clothing and the most frugal fare, on condition of hav- 
ing no trouble, and would surrender his income of 1400 
francs. But if he was poor, he was wilfully so, for he 
only drew George III.’s pension for one year, and even 
angrily destroyed the draft when an officious friend get 
7 000 francs of arrears due to him — for he hated money 
got through his enemy Hume. Meanwhile, the old 
delusions were becoming stronger and more persistent 
1 In his postscript to the Dialogues. 


224 


KOUSSEAU. 


than ever. Sometimes in the dusk, as he strolled in 
the suburbs, he would chat with the children whom he 
met, kissing and loading with bonbons those who made 
friends with him ; but if any person passed by, he at 
once feared he was being followed, and darted in terror 
under the shadow of a house. When he heard of the 
death of Louis XV., in 1774, he exclaimed, “Ah, God, 
how sorry I am ! ” “ Why 1 ” he was asked. “ Ah, be- 

cause he shared the hatred which the nation has sworn 
against me, and now I must bear it alone.” Yet as we 
read his * Reveries du Promeneur solitaire,’ composed in 
the last two years of his life, it is easy to see that his 
mind had its peaceful hours and calm thoughts, for 
none of his writings contain more beautiful passages, 
none more delicate in tone, none more rich in style, 
which linger long on both ear and memory. Besides 
remarkable studies of his own character, they sparkle 
with lovely scenes, admirable, vivid, and picturesque, 
such as the exquisite description of the life on the isle 
of St Pierre, written in moods of serenity. 

Poor Jean Jacques had his quiet happy days — days 
when all enemies were forgotten. Though unable to 
go far in his country rambles now, he had delight 
in arranging his plants, the trophies of the past, for to 
every one a happy memory clung ; and as he handled 
the tiny withered leaves, his mind was carried away to 
lovely scenes, to forests, rocks, and mountains dear to 
his heart ; or when he played on the harpsichord, and 
sang till his eyes filled with tears, all evil things vanished, 
and he was happy in his reveries. “ Consumed,” he one 
day wrote, “ by an incurable malady, which draws me by 


RETREAT FROM PARIS. 


225 


slow degrees to the grave, I often turn an eye of interest 
towards the career I quit, and without moaning over its 
close, I would gladly begin it anew. Meanwhile, what 
have I experienced during that space that deserves my 
attachment? Dependence, errors, .vain desires, poverty, 
infirmities of every kind, short pleasures, prolonged 
griefs, real evils and shadowy blessings. Ah! without 
doubt to live is a beautiful thing, since a life so un- 
fortunate leaves me so many regrets.” But whenever 
his thoughts reverted to the present, he was miserable 
again. He believed that the populace of Paris had 
beerl incited against him, and burned him in effigy; 
he feared to leave his house lest he should be stoned; 
and he fancied all Europe eyed him as a dangerous 
monster. 

M. de Girardin in 1778 offered Rousseau a pretty 
rustic cottage on his beautiful property of Ermonenville, 
twenty miles from Paris. Before he left for ever the 
Rue Platriere (now called Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau), 
the city was feting Yoltaire, who, after an exile of twenty- 
six years, had returned in his old age in triumph, amidst 
the enthusiasm of the people, only to die in a few 
months exhausted with glory. The theatres were nightly 
crowded with applauding audiences, when his plays were 
performed in his presence ; his rooms were buzzing with 
his noble courtiers; and the streets were thronged with 
eager crowds as he passed, — all forgetting poor Jean 
Jacques in his dingy garret. In the tranquil, beautiful 
woods and gardens of Ermonenville, Rousseau was at 
last happy for a while, amusing himself with his old 
pursuits, and by teaching his host’s son. Only a 

F. c.— XVII. p 


226 


ROUSSEAU. 


few weeks passed, however, before Rousseau’s misery 
began again : he felt himself surrounded by enemies 
and dogged by spies. He asked a friend to get him 
into a hospital. Therese, always base, was now vicious ; 
and her inclination for a groom on the estate is said 
to have embittered the old man’s last days. 1 He tried 
to flee, but had no money. All was ended on July 2, 
1778, when he died with startling suddenness. The 
surgeons, who made a post-mortem examination, asserted 
he had died of apoplexy, while rumours told that he 
had committed suicide, some saying he had poisoned 
himself, others that he had shot himself. Madame de 
8 tael has said she saw letters to his friend Moultou, 
announcing his intention of shortening his life ; and pas- 
sages in the ‘ New Iieloise,’ and in private correspon- 
dence, seeming to justify such an act, were remembered, 
though others quite as strong can certainly be quoted 
condemning it. Though the evidence of M. de Girardin 
seems to afford distinct testimony that his death was 
natural, over that end mystery and suspicion will for 
ever hang. Before he died he said to his wife: “You 
weep then at my happiness — eternal happiness, which 
men no more can disturb ? I die in peace : I never 
wished harm to any one, and I can rely on the mercy of 
God.” 2 Death, by whatever means attained, was to the 
old man a release, for he longed for that time when 
the wicked would cease to trouble him, and his weary 

1 Therese, after Rousseau’s death, lived at Plessis-Belleville, near 
Ermonenville, and died July 17, 1801. 

2 Letter from Girardin to Rey of Amsterdam. Gaberel’s Rous- 
seau et les Genevois, p. 145. 


DEATH. 


227 


heart would be at rest. By the moonlight of a still 
summer night, the body of Rousseau was silently borne 
in a boat to the islet in the little lake of Ermonen- 
ville, and buried amongst the tall poplar-trees — lying 
in death amid that solitude he had loved during life. 
There his body lay in peace, till during the Revo- 
lution in noisy triumph it was borne to Paris and 
placed in the Pantheon. 



EUD OP ROUSSEAU. 
























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